


Hautley's Bend

by ColdIntheStudio



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Awkward Castiel, Bad Boy Dean, Bad Parent John Winchester, Bad Parenting, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Body Image, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean Winchester, Boys Kissing, Bully Dean, Canonical Character Death, Castiel Whump, Child Abuse, Cigarettes, Dean Whump, Depression, Destiel - Freeform, Drug Use, Drugs, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Graphic Self Harm, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Partying, Protective Dean Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Scars, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Small Towns, Smoking, Switching, Teen Angst, Teenage Castiel, Teenage Dean Winchester, Teenage Rebellion, Theatre, Top Castiel, Top Dean Winchester, Underage Drinking, Virgin Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:59:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 42
Words: 500,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2816351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdIntheStudio/pseuds/ColdIntheStudio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak is used to change. He's used to being the new kid in school. So when he moves with his family to the small town of Rail Pass, he doesn't expect things to be much different than the last three towns.<br/>But then he meets Dean Winchester, an aggressive fellow student who sees Castiel as the shiny new toy he and his friends get to mess with. Castiel has had his fair share of bullies in the past, but nothing like this. He's never felt this way about a bully, or anyone for that matter, before. Maybe something's wrong with him, that he could feel so attracted to someone who makes his everyday life hell.<br/>But then again, he sees the way Dean looks at him sometimes. And there's a lot more to Dean Winchester than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all :)  
> This is my first fanfiction ever so I'm pretty nervous about it, but hopefully it won't disappoint :P  
> I'd really appreciate any feedback on how I can improve :)
> 
> This story starts out pretty dark, but it gets better, I promise! Things have to get worse before they can get better, right?

                _He never meant for this to happen._

_People always say that the years spent in high school are the best years of your life. But Castiel disagrees. He really does._

_This may, in fact, be the worst day of his life, looking up into those wide green eyes that seem ever-brighter in the icy cold light of winter. Even filled with blind rage, those eyes are gorgeous, and he tries to focus on them as punch after punch lands across his face._

_This is the worst it's ever been. At least in this town._

_But at the same time, Castiel thinks maybe he deserves this, like he's getting some sense knocked into him. Because how could he feel so warm inside every time he sees Dean Winchester, when Dean is the one who torments him more than anyone in this damned school?_

_Even now, with the boy on top of him, his worst bully yet, hitting and hitting and hitting, Castiel seeks comfort in the fact that this is_ Dean _hitting him, and no one else, and so he feels some sort of semblance of safety. Dean couldn't kill him - he wouldn't, right? Not when Castiel catches Dean looking at him sometimes like he’s seeing something more than the new bruises he’s going to give him later._

_Everything else fades away, and it's just Dean - Dean's fists, Dean's knees squeezing in on Cas's ribs, Dean's too-kissable lips twisted in an angry snarl, and those eyes. Those deep green eyes he fears and swoons over all at the same time. They're the last thing he sees in this moment._

_Yeah, Castiel is so screwed._

 

*       *       *

 

**_THREE MONTHS EARLIER_ **

                This town is nice. It’s different, smaller than the towns Castiel is used to moving to with his family, but nice. Maybe this place won’t be so bad, he thinks. The last place they’d lived was all concrete and dirty alleyways and the bantering of drunken night owls out his bedroom window every night.

                Here, it’s quiet. Castiel can hear himself breathe. He can hear the wind. It’s eerie, but it’s nice. And for once, everything – all the mismatched Victorian style houses, the lush East coast forest, the sturdy railroad – is beautiful to look at.

                It's hard to see any of it at the moment though, given that Anna's hair is practically eating Castiel's face from where she's perched on the handlebars of his bike in front of him. They just moved into their new home last night. There are still boxes piled in the family room of the tiny house.

                But Castiel needs a job. And he promised to take Anna into the heart of the town today. He always keeps his promises.

                "Faster!" she screams, whooping as his bike hits a pothole in the road. It's an old town - the roads are all torn up and in shit condition. Castiel has a white-knuckled grip on the handlebars in an attempt to keep the bike steady, but Anna keeps listing dangerously from one side to the other.

                On second thought, this wasn't a very good idea.

                "Do you have a death wish or something?" he mutters in her ear, trying to see over her bony little shoulder, "If I go any faster, you'll fall."

                He spits a clump of her fiery hair out of his mouth from where the wind blew it back while he was speaking.

                "I don't care!" she shouts in reply, even as she grabs Castiel's arm to catch herself from falling again.

                Cas shakes his head. "You're a horrible influence, you know that?"

                She snorts. "I'm only eleven. You're seventeen - _you're_ supposed to be the bad influence."

                "Yeah, well you're bad enough for the both of us," he says, steering his bike around the last block and heading for Main Street.

                She tries to punch him and fails when she loses balance again. "You're an asshole," she grumbles.

                He flicks her on the arm. "No cussing. Mom and dad would be pissed if they heard that."

                She huffs. "Well it's not like they're _going_ to hear it."

                Castiel ignores that, wrapping one arm around her to keep her steady as he maneuvers his bike to the side of the road near a streetlamp, the brakes screeching to a halt. Anna hops down from the handlebars, combing her fingers through her knotted hair as Castiel dismounts and locks his bike to the lamp post.

                Main Street is quiet. A few cars, a few pedestrians.

                It's mid-morning on a Sunday though, and this is a small town. Most of the older residents who have retired here are probably in church.

                Castiel doesn't believe in church anymore.

                "Can we get ice cream?" Anna asks, grabbing Castiel's thumb as she walks. Cas has no idea where that habit came from, but Anna will only ever hold his thumb, and nothing more, as if holding just his thumb is less childish than holding his whole hand. She's eleven after all. Not a child anymore.

                "I'll tell you what," he says, "You help me find a job, and we can get ice cream, okay?"

                She nods determinedly, following after him as he pulls her down Main Street. Most of the shops are closed, it being a Sunday, but there are a few cafes, book stores, and craft shops open. Castiel wanders into a few book stores, and once into a coffee shop, but none of them are hiring.

                It's not like Castiel _needs_ a job. Their parents leave enough money for them to buy groceries and necessities. But he _wants_ one. It makes him feel independent. Responsible. Lord knows someone in his family needs to be responsible for Anna.

                It takes almost two hours before he and Anna give up on Main Street and move to 2nd Avenue, where there are a few hole-in-the-wall shops that aren't quite popular enough to be placed on Main.

                And that's where Castiel finds it.

                It's a tiny shop with a tiny sign hanging over the tiny door, simply labeled _Singer Antiques and Crafts_.

                It's not a particularly remarkable place, wedged between a real estate office and an alleyway, but the windows are what catches Castiel's eye. They're thick like wine bottles and textured. They speak of the history of the town unlike all the modern shops on Main Street. He can tell that this building has been here for a while, that it has a past, and that draws Castiel in.

                That, and the _Help Wanted_ sign taped to the inside of the glass.

                Anna snorts. "Really? There? It looks like a haunted house."

                Cas tears his blue eyes away from the shop to look down at her. "That's what I like about it," he smiles, tugging her along, "Come on."

                She grumbles but obeys, following as he pulls her inside. There's a bell above the creaking door that lets out a dusty hollow jingle as they enter, and inside it's actually fairly well-lit considering how stuffy it is. The store isn't _small_ necessarily, but it's so cluttered with shelves and tables and crafts and things hanging from the ceiling and stacked in the corners, that the walls seem to close in around them.

                But Castiel likes it. This is the kind of place his mom would like, full of all sorts of antiques and a few artifacts. His mother is an anthropologist, currently somewhere in Central America working on some sort of extended study that will keep her there for the next several months. But that's nothing new. She's gone more than she's at home. All part of the glamour of having a cool job. Or so Castiel tells himself anyway.

                Their father is gone most of the time too - a traveling salesman criss-crossing the country for months at a time. But at least he's still in the continental US. He'd just left last night, hours after they'd moved in, and now it's just Castiel and Anna again, brother and sister, the way it always is.

                Anna veers off to the left the moment they enter the shop, immediately picking things up off the cluttered shelves and fiddling with them, studying them with her delicate little fingers.

                "Don't break anything," Castiel warns her, shooting her a look briefly before wandering further into the shop. It's so cluttered that it takes him a minute or two just to find the front desk. There are dishes of licorice candies and mood rings there, but no one is behind the counter. He leans over it and then glances around the shop, seeing no one else, hearing only Anna's little footsteps and the clinking and rattling of random objects she's picking up and putting back down.

                Castiel reaches out and hits the bell at the front desk once, and instantly hears a thump and a grumble from behind a parted curtain towards the back of the shop. The curtain has Japanese writing and cherry blossoms on it, but before Castiel can study it further, a gruff older man pushes his way through the part in the middle, a torn up baseball cap on his head, flannel shirt splayed open to reveal a plain white t-shirt over torn jeans.

                Of all the people Castiel expected to see managing this shop, this man is not it.

                "What can I do for ya?" he asks, rubbing his stubble with his fingertips.

                Castiel blinks at the man. He doesn't know why he freezes up sometimes when in the presence of strangers, but frankly, he's never been very good at talking to people.

                The man looks at him with serious but kind eyes. "Well? I ain't got all day, boy."

                Cas clears his throat, shaking himself once. "Um, sorry," he says, glancing back at where Anna is wandering somewhere in the shop still. When he looks to the man again, he's waiting with raised eyebrows that disappear under the brim of his ratty hat. "I was just wondering if you're still hiring - the sign says _Help Wanted_."

                "I know what the sign says son, I put it there," the man replies.

                Castiel flushes a little and looks down, but allows a small smile. "Well uh, I'd like to apply, if that's alright." he says.

                The man eyes him up and down pensively, his chin twitching a little like he's gritting his teeth and thinking really hard about it. Castiel almost wishes he'd worn his jacket. He feels stupid standing here in old jeans and a baggy Cincinnati t-shirt with a hole in the shoulder that his dad sent him from a duty free store in Ohio. "What's your name son?" the shopkeeper asks.

                "Castiel Novak sir," he replies immediately, shifting his weight to his other foot. He cringes as Anna drops something behind him and she whispers a small apology. The shopkeeper doesn't seem to notice.

                The man holds out his arm. "Bobby Singer," he greets, his grip firm as Castiel shakes his hand, "And you're hired. You can start in a week."

                Castiel blinks at him. "What?"

                Bobby releases his hand and raises his eyebrows. "You deaf son?"

                "Not since I last checked, no."

                "Good," he replies, "Then I'll see you next Saturday at ten in the morning sharp."

                Castiel just stands there for a moment, and then blinks a few times. "Alright, uh, thank you sir."

                Mr. Singer waves him off. "Don't call me 'sir', I ain't stuffy enough. Just call me Bobby."

                He nods. "Bobby then. Thank you."

                "No worries," Bobby replies, "You got any special skills kid?"

                Castiel almost laughs at the fact that this man is interviewing him after hiring him now. "Like what?"

                Bobby gestures around at the various items in the store. "I own a craft shop. It'd be nice to have more inventory, if you have any hobbies like that."

                "He makes origami all the time," Anna calls out from the back, where she's fiddling with a music box.

                Bobby smiles softly, a barely-there expression that eases his whole face. "That'll do just fine," he says, "Tell you what. Bring some of your origami in next time and I'll sell them for you, make you some more money on the side since the pay here is shit."

                Castiel snorts at that. "Okay, that sounds nice. Thank you Bobby."

                He nods and Castiel watches him reach under the counter and pull out a small bottle of cheap whiskey, not even trying to hide the fact that it's there. He takes a long swig, gritting his teeth as it goes down, and then grins a little at Castiel before knocking twice on the counter and disappearing behind the Japanese curtains again.

                Cas stands there for a few moments, blinking, wondering how that just happened. It was so much harder to get jobs in all the other places he's lived in. A small smile graces his lips, and he turns, eyes scouring the store for Anna.

                She pops out from behind a shelf near the back, fiddling with some sort of mouse statue that looks like it's seen better days. “Good,” she says, “Now you can buy me ice cream.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes. “Brat.”

 

*       *       *

 

                Rail Pass, Vermont is a moderately-sized East Coast town of no less than twenty-thousand people. Despite this, it’s thriving with an energy that makes it feel like a sitcom. It’s comforting, warm even in the bite of September, and everything about it screams bake sales and community and motherly embraces.

                It’s not like anywhere Castiel has ever lived before.

                But maybe this is good. Things are already going well. Castiel already has a job. Maybe it’s different here.

                The whole town, according to extensive research Castiel did before moving here, is built up against a thick forest that stretches for miles, separating Rail Pass from the more metropolitan areas of the state. An old railroad with rusted spikes and well-used tracks after which the town is named is the only thing that connects Rail Pass to the bigger cities, besides the highway Castiel drove in on.

                And then there’s Nathan Hautley. Castiel doesn’t know much about the man, just that he and his wife founded the town some ungodly number of years ago. Castiel’s research didn’t reveal too much about the man, but the overall consensus is that the story of Nathan Hautley and his wife is one of tragedy, and not one the town wishes to remember.

                And so they remember the railroad. And they live for bake sales and community and motherly embraces. And they forget all about the fact that this town was founded upon tragedy.

                Of all the things Castiel learned about this town, he shouldn’t be thinking about Nathan Hautley. But he can’t stop thinking about the man. He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about him since he read about him while researching Rail Pass.

                What he _should_ be thinking about is the fact that tomorrow is the first day of his senior year in high school. His eyes scan the trees of the dark forest at the edge of town as his nerves flutter in his stomach.

                He knows that his new high school is just through those trees, in a clearing at the edge of the town. He'd found a shortcut through the forest that would shave fifteen minutes off his walk to school every morning. For a small town, the school has a pretty impressive population of just under two-thousand students.

                And Castiel is nervous.

                He's always nervous going into a new school, and classes have already been in session for a few weeks here. So, once again, like every other time in his life, he'll be the new kid, and tomorrow is his first day. He reminds himself again that this is his senior year, that he's almost done, and then he'll never have to go to high school again after this. It will just be a bunch of bad memories, and college will be better. He tells himself that. He has to. Because like it or not, he's going to the first day of his senior year tomorrow, and that will be that.

                And on and on it goes.

 

*       *       *

 

                He bikes a different route home this time, partially for the sake of exploring their new town, but mostly in the hopes of finding a road with less potholes in it so he doesn't have to keep catching Anna on the handlebars.

                However, she nearly topples off anyway when Castiel suddenly screeches to a halt halfway there, wrapping one arm around Anna to catch her just in time. She sputters and lets out a little yelp, her hands scrambling for purchase as the bike comes to a complete stop. She whips her head around.

                "What the hell!"

                "No cussing," he scolds distractedly, his gaze scanning over the tiny park that had caught his eye. It's a nondescript little place, with just a swing set, lonely slide, and rusted merry-go-round among patches of browning September grass. In front of the small park is an equally small sign, hanging chipped and creaking, that reads _Hautley's Bend_.

                Anna follows Castiel's gaze and eyes the park. "Isn't Hautley that guy you read about?" she asks, looking at the sign.

                "The founder of the town, yeah," Castiel murmurs, biting his lip and then steering his bike over to the side of the road near a sad looking tree.

                "What are you doing?" Anna asks.

                "Let's stop for a bit," Castiel replies, "It's better than going back to the house and unpacking right?"

                Anna grimaces. "What's your obsession with that Hautley guy?"

                Castiel's brow furrows. "I'm not obsessed with him." He dismounts and locks his bike to the tree. Anna takes his thumb again as they walk across the dead grass to the park together. Her hands are still sticky from her ice cream.

                "You won't stop talking about him," she argues, "Do you really have nothing better to do with your time?"

                "Maybe I don't," Castiel shrugs, "Besides spoiling you, I don't have much going for me."

                She snorts but doesn't deny it, squeezing his thumb once as if to thank him for the ice cream. They come to a stop right at the edge of the grass, staring at the playground together. It's completely empty, and the old equipment groans and creaks in the slight breeze like something out of a horror movie.

                Anna eyes the park skeptically. "The swings look suspect."

                Castiel huffs a little. "How so?"

                "They look like they're about to fall apart at any second."

                "Anna, this town is over a hundred years old, everything is about to fall apart."

                She stares at the swings for several long moments before Castiel rolls his eyes and tugs her along. "Come on, we won't know until we try."

                "What? If they'll kill me or not?"

                "Exactly."

                Anna stumbles along. "You think that's why they called it _Hautley's Bend_ , because it's cursed?"

                "Shut up and swing," Castiel chuckles, lifting her up and setting her onto one of the wooden seats. It groans ominously under her small weight. Her eyes widen and she looks up at him.

                "That was Nathan Hautley's ghost crying out from the dead," she whispers.

                Cas laughs. "And you accuse _me_ of being obsessed with him."

                She grins. "Will you push me?"

                "Only if you promise to drop all Hautley talk," he replies.

                "Deal."

                Castiel rounds the creaking wooden swing and gives Anna a small push to start off. The hinges of the swing squeal loudly with rust and age, sending chills down Castiel's spine. Anna groans and covers her ears. "On second thought, let's just sit on them. No swinging."

                Castiel grimaces. "Agreed," he replies and takes a seat on the other swing, rocking lazily and scanning the park and neighborhood with his round blue eyes.

                They're quiet for several minutes, lost in thought.

                "Do you think there are any people my age that live around here?" Anna asks suddenly, noting how empty the playground is.

                "Well there are enough kids that they have a middle school, so I think you'll be fine," Castiel replies.

                "You think they'll be nice?"

                He shrugs. "Small towns usually have their fair share of nice people in them. I don't see why the kids would be any different."

                She doesn't say anything to that, just bites her lip and rocks herself with her toes on the ground. He looks down at her expression and then sighs, standing and stepping in front of her, crouching down. "Hey, come on," he says, holding her chin, "None of that okay? They were stupid rumors back at your old school. Things will be different here."

                The inner city schools hadn't been kind to either of them. Anna had been caught up in a rumor about stealing lunch boxes and hiding them behind the toilets at school. One would think city kids have better things to do than bully a sweet little girl. Castiel feels bad for Anna. Sure, he's the new kid all the time, but Anna is too, and he thinks it might be harder for someone younger than him.

                She chews her lip and sighs. "I'm staying away from lunch boxes for the rest of my life."

                He laughs at that. "Look," he says, "Those were just a bunch of bullies at your old school spreading rumors about you. It was just a bad situation that you accidentally got caught up in. And it made you stronger, right?"

                She cocks her head to the side. "Did it make _you_ stronger?"

                His eyebrows press together. "What, your lunch box fiasco?"

                "No," she grumbles, "I mean, what happened to _you_."

                He presses his lips together, dropping his hand from her chin and looking down for a moment. "You always worry about what happened to me," he sighs, "That doesn't matter anymore. Just like the lunch box incident doesn't matter anymore either. This is a fresh start."

                She slumps a little, and Castiel isn't sure whether it's out of defeat or relief. "I guess we've both had our fair share of bullies, huh?"

                He snorts again and stands. "None of that matters now," he says, his fingers absently coming up and running across the raised bump of his scar on his lower abdomen, a hard ridge through his t-shirt, "I say we just hang out here, go to school tomorrow, and say fuck the world. How's that sound?"

                "You said 'fuck'," she teases, "Hypocrite."

                He rolls his eyes. "I'm older than you. I can say whatever I want."

                "Yeah whatever, hypocrite," she snorts, scuffing her toe against the dirt ground.

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, glancing around. He spots the restrooms in a tiny building the size of a shed near the edge of the forest across the street. It seems everywhere they go in town, the forest is always there.

                "Stay here, I'm going to the bathroom," he says, "Will you be okay?"

                "Sure," she replies, "Being a hypocrite must make it hard to control your bladder."

                He glares at her halfheartedly. "You realize that makes no sense, right?"

                She says nothing, just gives him a wry grin, and he restrains the urge to flick her in the arm. Siblings.

                He heads across the street to the restrooms. The closer he gets, the more dilapidated the small building looks, but it's the only public restroom around here, so he prays that it's still useable. It's ten times warmer inside than outside, and smells like dust and fake lemon air freshener. At least they keep it semi-clean.

                He's surprised to find graffiti and beer cans inside. It's the first sign of any teenage normalcy he's seen since arriving in town. He was beginning to think this town was filled with a bunch of straight-edge obedient kids unlike any he's ever been around. Maybe there are troublemakers everywhere after all.

                He only takes a couple minutes in the restroom, washing his hands in the ice cold water from the tap and drying them on his worn jeans when he can't find any paper towels. When he returns to the park, he's surprised to find that Anna is no longer alone. He straightens when he spots the boy with her.

                He's taller than Anna, and lanky, awkward in a prepubescent way, with floppy wet-sand-colored hair that's cut uneven and swings when he moves. Castiel's first instinct is to walk over and intervene, protective-older-brother mode kicking in. But then Anna throws her head back and laughs musically at something the boy says, and Cas can see dimples appear on the boy's cheeks when he smiles at the sound.

                Castiel forces himself to stop walking, and he watches them for a moment. The boy is talking animatedly, waving his hands in the air, and Anna is grinning ear-to-ear. Maybe this is what Anna needs, to make a friend before her first day of sixth grade tomorrow. The boy is tall, but has a baby face that suggests he and Anna are around the same age. Maybe they go to the same school.

                All at once, relief washes through Cas. Maybe Rail Pass will be better for Anna. Maybe she'll make friends easily. Castiel doesn't expect to make many friends himself - he never does. But at least he won't have to worry about whether Anna is happy in school or not.

                The little boy with the dog-like hair and the white, white smile leads Anna over to the lone slide, helping her up the ladder and then watching as she slides down the smooth silver metal. It's the kind of slide that no one dares go near in the summer, because the metal grows boiling hot in the sun. Castiel lowers himself to the grass, sitting cross-legged there and watching the boy and Anna take turns going down the slide. Anna laughs when the boy slides too far and ends up on his back in the dirt. She helps him up and brushes the dust off his shirt.

                Castiel has no idea how long he sits there watching them talk and play, but he feels peaceful. The breeze is gentle and slides through his mussed dark hair like ghostly fingers, and rattles the browning leaves on the trees in the forest, clinking them together like chandelier crystals. For a moment, he can forget about the fact that tomorrow is his first day of senior year. He can forget about the fact that their house is full of unpacked boxes. He can forget about the fact this his parents aren't here, and won't be here for months. He can forget about the fact that they're the new kids in town, again. Because the sun is warm, the breeze is crisp, and the air is clean unlike city air has been for them for the past year.

                And that's when Castiel smells the cigarette smoke. He doesn't realize his eyes have slipped closed until the smell of the smoke interrupts his tranquil thoughts. He opens his eyes and it takes all of half a second to spot the newcomer on the other side of the playground.

                His breath catches in his throat.

                Castiel is a rational teenager. He knows that there's no such thing as love at first sight, or angels, or sirens of any sort. But all that rationality seems to drain from his mind when he sees the boy standing across the park from him.

                The first thing Castiel sees is a dark leather jacket, out of place in the gentle September atmosphere. The boy is wearing washed-out dark jeans, a t-shirt, and the leather jacket, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger. But that's not what strikes Castiel. What strikes him is that not only is this boy _gorgeous_ \- classically so, like a marble statue, with tousled brown spikes of hair, a chiseled sharp jaw, and eyes so green they look like beacons even from this distance - but he's staring right at Castiel.

                His stare is unwavering, and Castiel is caught so off-guard that he can do nothing but stare back. They stare at each other for what feels like hours, long enough for Castiel's heart to declare war on his ribcage. Long enough for Cas to convince himself that, hey, maybe sirens do exist. And this boy was made just to turn his rationality into mush.

                All thoughts leave his brain until there's nothing left but _green_. Those eyes are vibrant, energetic, alive, like spring grass at the crack of dawn, just as the golden sun hits the dew. Like melted emeralds. Like moss. And the boy's hair is perfectly imperfect, messy and sticking up every which way like he's been running his fingers through it, shards of shiny strands like copper on fire. The hard cut of his jaw becomes sharper as his pale lips wrap around his cigarette and pucker white when he takes a long smooth drag, never breaking his stare with Castiel.

                Cas swallows hard, gulping embarrassingly, and he almost misses the way the guy smirks a little as Cas forces himself to tear his eyes away, scanning the playground distractedly for Anna. She's still with the floppy haired boy, but they're at the merry-go-round now, hanging on opposite sides, pushing at the ground with their heels to get the screeching rusted thing turning. It groans under the strain.

                _Shit_. Castiel did not want this to happen. He's been very good his whole life at talking himself out of having feelings for anyone. It's just easier that way. They're always leaving town, moving after a year or two. No time or chance to form real connections with people. No need to put his heart on the line. But how can he very well be expected to concentrate on being invisible when there's a guy who looks like _that_ walking around? It's just not fair.

                He sits there pouting in the grass, and stares down at his hands, picking at his fingernails, making it a point _not_ to look at the guy again. For several long minutes he sits there, pretending he doesn't feel the hairs on the nape of his neck standing up because he just _knows_ the guy is still staring at him. He can feel those green eyes on him.

                An immeasurable number of minutes later, two pairs of small feet suddenly appear in his line of vision, and he raises his eyes, finding Anna and the little boy standing in front of him grinning and breathing heavily in exertion. He's thankful and mournful all at once that they're blocking his view of the gorgeous boy across the park.

                "Castiel, this is Sam," Anna introduces with a toothy grin, nodding towards the floppy-haired boy. Cas blinks at him a couple times, shaking himself out of his musings, and then clears his throat awkwardly. _Very eloquent_.

                He sticks out his hand. "It's very nice to meet you Sam," he says.

                The boy - Sam - smiles, and those dimples appear again as he accepts Castiel's handshake. "Anna told me you guys just moved here. Did you move into that old house on Coolidge?"

                Castiel pushes himself to his feet as he replies, "Yes, just last night."

                Sam bobs his head a couple times in understanding, glancing at Anna and smiling. Castiel can't help himself. He briefly glances over their heads at the mystery boy across the park. He's still staring over here, but he's straightened up from where he was leaning against a tree, and is now watching more intently, chewing lightly on his cigarette.

                "Are you going to the high school?" Sam asks him, successfully drawing his attention away from the boy, for which Castiel is thankful.

                He nods. "I start tomorrow."

                "Cool," Sam smiles, "My brother Dean is a senior there." Sam gestures behind himself at the mystery boy - Dean. _Great_ , Castiel thinks, _now I really can't avoid him._

                Castiel uses the small introduction as an excuse to look up at Dean again where he hasn't moved from the other side of the playground. Dean glances down briefly to flick his cigarette away and scuff it out with the sole of his black work boot. It's the first time Castiel notices the faint crescent-moon bruise circling the outer corner of his right eye. Castiel wouldn't have noticed it had he not been so tuned in to everything involving the guy at the moment.

                Cas licks his lips and looks back down at Sam and Anna. Sam is almost his height, but up close it's even easier to tell that the boy is still young. His elbows are knobby with youth. "Do you go to the middle school?" Castiel asks him, trying so hard not to watch the gorgeous boy - _Dean_ \- in his peripheral vision.

                Sam nods with another smile. Damn, this kid smiles a lot. "Well, it's a K-8 school, but yeah, I'm in seventh grade. So I guess I'll be seeing Anna there tomorrow." He grins down at Anna and nudges her shoulder. She blushes and smiles at the ground.

                "Yes you will," Castiel agrees, another wave of relief cascading through him. God, but he's happy Anna has made a friend so quickly.

                Anna pulls in a breath to say something else, but is interrupted by a voice across the park. "Sammy! Come on, we're gonna be late to Ellen's!"

                Castiel knows it's Dean's voice even before Sam turns to acknowledge his older brother's request. Cas barely hears Sam whine, "Can't we stay five more minutes?" because he's too busy reeling over the husky deep voice that just came out of Dean. It's like melted chocolate and wood burning and it sends signals straight to his dick. _Damn it_.

                It's just not fair.

                "'Fraid not dude, we'll come back some other time," Dean replies from across the way, turning and bending down to pick up what looks like a book from under the tree he was just leaning against. Castiel gets a nice view of Dean's jean-clad ass as he does, and has to quickly look away before he does something stupid like lust after it.

                Jesus Christ, this is horrible. He's not usually this easy to level, and the guy isn't even _doing_ anything. Castiel must be tired.

                Sam grumbles in disappointment, and then turns back to them. "Catch you guys later," he says. Castiel watches as Sammy gives Anna a high five, making Cas smile again, and then he turns and runs over to Dean, taking the book from Dean's large hands and hugging it against his chest. Dean leads Sam away with an arm slung around his bony shoulders, ruffling his shaggy hair with one hand.

                Cas watches after them, and almost flinches when Dean glances back over his shoulder at him. When he sees that Castiel is still staring at him, his soft lips curl up in a small smile, and _God_ , if that isn't the most endearing smile Cas has ever seen. He doesn't get a chance to snap out of it and smile back at Dean before the two of them disappear around the corner down the next block.

                Castiel stares at the spot where they disappeared until Anna pops into his line of vision. "I think I'm in love," she muses with a dramatic sigh.

                Castiel rolls his eyes. "You're eleven, you don't even know what that means."

                "Oh really?" she teases, "Because I'd call that look in your eyes love, if I didn't know any better."

                Cas finally looks at her with a little glare that's mostly teasing. "You _don't_ know any better. And I have no idea what you're talking about," he snorts with finality, grabbing her arms and pulling her along with him.

                "So...Dean," Anna begins as they head back to Castiel's bike.

                Castiel bites his lip, glancing in the direction where the two boys had disappeared, as if hoping that they will suddenly reappear. "What about him?" he replies, lifting Anna up and setting her on the handlebars again, mounting his bike carefully and pushing off the tree to head home.

                "You guys were having eye sex hardcore," she comments, and Castiel sputters.

                "We were not! He barely looked at me twice!"

                She snickers. "He was handsome."

                "Whatever," he grumbles, not even bothering to deny it, because the guy _was_ handsome, painfully so.

                So much that Castiel can't even really focus on the road in front of him, because all he sees is _green_.

                They make it back to their new house quickly, mid-afternoon. In the small yard next to theirs, a heavyset dark-skinned woman is out tending her garden, despite the fact that it's September and the flowers will be wilting soon. A small pale boy is out with her, no older than seven or eight, and obviously of no relation to the older woman. Castiel and Anna look on curiously as Cas slows his bike and wheels it to the side of the house, out of view of the street, in the hopes that it won't be stolen. They're not in the city anymore - maybe bikes don't get stolen quite as much.

                "Jesse!" a bird-like voice calls out from behind him, just as he hears small pattering footsteps coming up while he lifts Anna from the handlebars once more. He turns to see the little boy from next door standing a few feet behind them, a cautious but excited gleam in his eyes.

                "You're new here, aren't you?" he asks, in a high voice, wide innocent eyes flicking between Cas and Anna with unfiltered curiosity.

                Cas smiles a little as he sees the older woman pushing herself up and making her way over to them. "We just moved in last night," he explains to the little boy - Jesse.

                It seems Castiel will be explaining this more than once in the next few weeks. Yes, they are new here, and yes, it's a small town. They're the strangers, the outsiders. But they're also painfully used to that. Painfully used to change.

                Jesse holds out his hand. "Nice to meet you!" he grins, and there's a sort of wolfish look to him, mischievous.

                Castiel politely extends his own arm and shakes Jesse's hand, only to pull away with a small yelp as a sharp buzzing zaps through his palm when it connects with the boy's. Jesse bursts out laughing, a high-pitched gleeful noise, opening his hand to reveal a small silver buzzer - the kind bought at magic shops and toy stores. Castiel shakes his hand a little, willing away the tickling feeling of the buzzer, and then chuckles a little. "Very clever."

                Jesse shrugs through his laughter just as the older woman from the neighboring house catches up. "I'm sorry about him," she says, shaking her head and scolding Jesse with a little flick to the shoulder, pushing him back towards their yard once before turning back to Castiel. "He gets a little carried away with all those pranks sometimes."

                Cas nods in understanding. "It's alright, I don't mind. I used to love magic too."

                The woman rolls her eyes and holds out a hand. Cas extends his arm for what feels like the hundredth time today, shaking her warm, and surprisingly motherly, hand. "I'm Missouri," she introduces herself, and Castiel briefly wonders how the hell he's going to remember the names of all the people he's met today. Everyone here seems so outgoing, and it's just another thing he finds different between himself and the rest of the world. He truly is an outcast.

                "Castiel Novak," he replies, "And this is my sister Anna."

                Missouri gives her a warm smile. "I haven't seen your parents around yet sugar - where are they?" she asks, looking at Castiel with unwavering eyes. She has the kind of eyes that see right through you, and Cas swallows down his immediate unease.

                "Working," he replies shortly, "It's just us two for now."

                Missouri hums a bit, eyeing them both with pursed lips as if that disappoints her for some reason. Castiel doesn't know why she seems to care.

                "Well if you need anything, we're right next door," she says, "It was very nice to meet you."

                Cas gives a slightly strained smile and nods once, scooping Anna up in a piggyback hold and carrying her to the front door. He can feel Missouri's eyes on him the whole way in, and it makes him uncomfortable, despite her kindness. Then again, nearly everything makes him feel uncomfortable.

                "Don't tell me you thought that Jesse kid was cute too," Castiel teases Anna once they're inside and the door is shut and locked.

                Anna slaps his arm. "He's _way_ too young."

                Castiel slaps her arm back and picks her up, swinging her around until she's dangling upside down by her legs. 

                She screams and laughs and batters her little fists against his legs until he relents and sets her down carefully, nudging her with his foot as he walks past into the living room. The house is tiny - an old blue Victorian style place. The first floor consists of a small kitchen, living room, bathroom, and a tiny spare room that Castiel believes will soon be a bedroom. The second floor is just two bedrooms and one bathroom. It's dark and cramped inside, but it's home now, and therefore comforting in a way.

                He eyes all the unpacked boxes in the living room, sighing deeply. He wishes that their father had stayed long enough to help unpack at least, but this happens every time they move - Castiel is stuck unpacking it all. His parents don't even really seem to care how he decorates the house. Anna seems to sense his weariness as he looks at all the stacks of boxes, and so she comes up and takes his thumb, pulling him forward and opening the first box herself, beginning to hand him things from it. He gives a little grateful smile, and they spend the rest of the afternoon, and into the night, unpacking as many as they can. They make a good amount of progress, although there's still a lot to go, before they heat up a couple cans of beans for dinner around nine, and Castiel ushers Anna to bed upstairs shortly thereafter.

                She willingly collapses, to Castiel's relief, and he throws the blankets over her, switching off her light and leaving the room, packing her backpack for school downstairs, packing his own as well. He eyes his new school supplies as he does, tendrils of nervousness curling in his gut. He hates this, going to a new school. But he has to. It'll be over soon, he reminds himself. He just has his senior year to go, and then he can leave and go to college somewhere.

                He sighs as he stuffs his last notebook inside, zipping up the backpack and dropping it next to Anna's on the floor in the front entrance.

                When he lays down to sleep, pulling the blankets tight around himself to block out the chilly September night, he stares at the ceiling for a couple hours. And thinks. He thinks about how kind Bobby Singer had been at the craft store, giving him a job so willingly. He thinks about Missouri next door, with the mischievous Jesse, whom Castiel suspects may be an adopted son.

                And he thinks about Dean at the park. He thinks about how soft his freckled skin looked, about his loose black shirt, about his noticeably toned arms under that leather jacket, about his full lips, about his spiky hair, about his heavy boots, about his fiery eyes...about his everything. He's never been affected by someone this way - but then again, he's in a new place, and his nerves are disorienting his mind, making him vulnerable to sharper emotions.

                Still trying to convince himself that he wasn't as strongly affected by this gorgeous boy as he thinks, he falls asleep smelling phantom strings of cigarette smoke in the air.

 

*       *       *

 

                _The dream begins as it always does. It's cold, and dark, and Castiel doesn't know why he's so sad - just that he is. So overwhelmingly sad. And it's weird because he's not himself. He looks at his reflection and sees someone different, someone with a sallow face and weary eyes, years older than Cas knows he is inside._

_He's driving down this road in an old, old car that smells like industry and death, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds with a sense of longing for the memories behind him, and a sense of hopelessness every moment he continues forward toward the endless horizon, far, far away from the life he left behind._

_He knows this, even if these thoughts and feelings are someone else's._

_Deep down, Cas has heard this story - several times since he moved to Rail Pass. Maybe the story affected him more than he thought, because he's had this dream several times now, and he always wakes with tears on his face and nose running and a heavy heart._

_And he lays there, staring at the ceiling, feeling like he's lost something he loves, even though he's never lost anything of the sort before. Not really. You can't lose something you've never had._


	2. In The Beginning

The woods are crisp this early on a Monday morning in September. Dean has always liked the cold more than the sweltering heat of the summer. This is nice. He likes to feel the burn of the frosty air licking down into his lungs and tightening his chest. It clashes with the dry heat of his cigarette as he takes another drag, chewing on the filter a little and tasting the menthol.

                He hates school - but doesn't everyone? Except for those fucking honor students that always annoy the crap out of Dean, because they seem to have their shit so together when he's already behind in most of his classes, only three weeks into his first semester of senior year.

                Dean is smart - he really is. Very smart, actually. He excels in math especially, and he's a fantastic writer, and a genius in science. He knows history like he knows the back of his hand, scarred up knuckles and all. He knows this, for the most part, but he's also unmotivated. What's the point? Go to school, grow up, get a job, die? That's it? Really, what's the point?

                But he forces himself to go to school anyway. It's not like he has anything better to do, and there's no way in hell he wants to hang out at home with John Winchester all day, every day.

                His heavy boots crunch over the twigs and dry leaves already falling from the trees in the forest behind his house. He cuts through here most days on his way to school - it's a faster route than taking the road. For a while, he hears nothing but the calm stillness of morning. It's too cold even for the birds to be singing. There's just the crackle of the trees, and his footsteps, and his exhales as he breathes out clouds of smoke that linger in the air as if frozen in place.

                He tucks his hands in his pockets, holding his cigarette between his lips so he can thaw out his fingers. As he comes up closer to the high school, he can hear students laughing and chattering as they file inside, and he hopes the janitors managed to at least crank up the heat in the classrooms. When he breaks free of the forest, his feet automatically carry him to where his friends are usually gathered.

                It's called The Docks - a small gathering of boulders and cement slabs right on the edge of a river running into the forest with a bridge leading over it. It's where all the stoners and burnouts gather before classes and in free periods.

                Although usually, at this point, it's just Dean and his friends, because they have a reputation, and the moment one of them walks up, the rest of the smokers quickly depart. Dean stamps out his cigarette as he approaches, finding his friends huddled against the cold smoking their own cigarettes.

                Crowley is inconspicuously taking swigs from an expensive flask he keeps in the pocket of his pea coat, and Dean is tempted to ask him for a little bit to warm his muscles, but decides against it. Zach and Gordon are sat down on a boulder together, pressed close, not even caring how gay it looks because it's so cold out right now. Alastair is standing off to the side, and Dean kind of cringes when he sees him. He's never particularly liked Al, but they hang out in the same small crowd, so he tolerates him. At the moment, he’s smoking a hit from a pipe, what Dean assumes is just weed.

                 It's not the worst Dean has ever seen the guy do, so he ignores it.

                He doesn't actually particularly like _any_ of his friends that much, but they're the only friends he's got, so he deals with it in quiet resignation. He has a reputation - if he didn't hang out with these guys, he wouldn't have any friends, and hanging out with assholes is better than being alone.

                 Crowley isn't such a bad guy anyway - Dean met him his freshman year of high school when Crowley was an exchange student from London. When he'd reappeared and actually _moved_ here from Britain last year, Dean had been happy to see him, but baffled at the fact that he'd chosen to live _here_ in this shitty town as opposed to _England_.

                Gordon is an alright guy, if a little flat personality-wise. Dean doesn't know much about him, other than the fact that he was raised in a military family and has strict parents who molded him into a stiff and cold sort of person. But Gordon can be one hell of a sadistic fuck if he wants to be - Dean has seen that firsthand with some of the several younger, weaker students at their school.

                Zach is just a dick, plain and simple. A pompous dick. Dean has no idea why he's even here.

                And Alastair...he's the creepiest guy Dean has ever met. He steers clear of him whenever he can, but the guy always looks at him with hooded, piercing eyes that lick over his body like he's a steak instead of an eighteen year old boy. It pisses Dean off, but he says nothing. He doesn't know why. He thinks maybe all the others think Al is creepy too, but they keep him around because Al was held back for two years in a row as a senior, and just turned twenty-one three months ago. Old enough to buy them alcohol - that seems more important than distancing themselves from a snide creep apparently.

                Dean closes the distance between himself and his four friends, his hands tightly tucked in his pockets, huddling from the cold, even as he savors the feeling of the air sliding down his throat like ice water.

                "Morning," he says gruffly, clearing his throat, voice even more hoarse than usual from his dry cigarette.

                "Where'd you get the shiner?" Gordon asks, nodding towards Dean's fading black eye.

                "Bear wrestling," Dean deadpans, instantly changing his mind about asking Crowley for a swig from his flask. He doesn't even have to ask, just holds out his palm and Crowley hands over the alcohol willingly.

                Crowley may be a scumbag, but he's the best friend Dean's ever had apart from Sammy. It's refreshing sometimes, especially when Crowley reads his mind like he did just now.

                "You're hilarious," Gordon drawls, hacking and spitting on the ground beside himself before flicking his cigarette towards the river. It lands in the dry brush, but fizzles out before anything can catch on fire.

                Dean grits his teeth as the expensive whiskey rolls down his throat, huffing a little breath and instantly feeling better. He shoots Crowley a grateful look as he hands the flask back, and then instantly flinches when he feels a bony hand land on his shoulder. He hadn't even seen Al come up behind him.

                "You look tired Dean," Alastair says with phony concern, his voice the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard, nasally and slick, "You alright?" His breath is sour.

                Dean shrugs his way out from under Al's hand, trying to be polite about it. He wonders why he even bothers. "Late night, I'm fine. Anyone got any grub? I'm starving."

                Zach fishes in his pocket and pulls out a foil-wrapped block, tossing it to Dean. "My mom makes them by the gallon, and they're disgusting. Take it."

                Dean peels back the foil to find a chalky white biscuit. Better than nothing. He nods his thanks to Zach and takes a bite, ignoring the bland dryness of the bread as he chews and forces himself to swallow. It's better than the nothing he'd eaten at his house this morning before walking Sammy to school.

                The five-minute-warning bell rings just then, and they all groan simultaneously, standing and gathering their things, stomping out their cigarettes. Like clockwork, Victor, the school security guard, saunters around the corner of the building towards The Docks. He comes by every day to make sure Dean and his friends get inside the school and don't wander off and ditch. Like a permanent babysitter.

                Crowley gives Victor a dainty little mocking wave, and Victor purses his lips with a scowl.

                "I do believe he's beginning to like me," Crowley mutters to Dean as they make their way towards the school.

                Dean eyes Victor and scoffs. "In your dreams Crowley. That man likes nobody."

                "He likes me," Zach protests.

                Dean rolls his eyes at the same time as Crowley snorts. "Anybody will like a boy whose family basically pays their salary," Crowley points out. And it's true. Zach comes from wealth, and a lot of it. The funding his family provides for the school is probably enough that the extra help of a security guard is easily affordable.

                Zach has nothing to say to that, just bites his lip and allows Gordon to open the front door of the school for them. Dean tries hard not to let any part of his body touch Alastair where the guy is walking too-close-for-comfort behind him. God, but he can't wait to get the hell out of this place and away from Al for good.

                It's the same thing every morning for them. Meet at The Docks, get inside, and head for Zach's locker first. Dean would rather not tag along with his friends every single morning to each of their lockers, but he doesn't know how to say no. At least his, Crowley's, and Gordon's lockers are close together so the process doesn't take longer than it has to. It's one of those high school teenage rituals that Dean really doesn't understand, groups of people going to their lockers together. Kind of like packs of girls going to the bathroom together. It makes no sense.

                Al at least doesn't even seem to have a locker. He doesn't have any books, either. He has a backpack, but there's only a vast pharmacy of alcohol and drugs in there that conveniently disappears when there are monthly drug sniffing dogs that come into the school for random locker searches.

                Zach rifles around in his locker, chatting about something that Dean's not listening to. He's snapped back to reality when Gordon nudges him. "Check out the fresh meat," he says to Dean in his low voice that is somehow always too calm for comfort.

                Dean looks at him and follows his line of vision to the lockers down the hall. It's still fairly crowded in the hallway, but Dean knows exactly who Gordon is talking about when he spots him.

                Castiel. That's what Sammy had said the guy's name is. It's the guy from the park yesterday afternoon. Weird name - Dean wonders if maybe Sam heard it wrong. But a weird name like that seems fitting for a weird guy like Castiel. He's standing at a locker several meters away, stuffing random notebooks into his backpack and juggling a few textbooks, as if trying to decide which ones he needs.

                "You seen him around before? He looks new," Zach asks, closing his locker and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. The five of them stare at Castiel down the hallway.

                Dean doesn't want to tell them that he knows who Castiel is, even if they haven't actually officially met yet. So he shrugs. "Mr. Wyatt said we're gonna have a new student in our math class this week. Maybe that's him."

                Al grins, all chipped teeth and sharp eyes, and Dean has to look away before the smile makes him nauseous. "Shall we introduce ourselves?" he asks, his voice dripping like tar.

                He doesn't wait for a response, just begins sauntering over to where Castiel is packing his bag, dropping a pen and stooping over to pick it up. Gordon chuckles a little, following after Al, and when Crowley and Zach start walking, Dean finds no choice but to follow them too. Al is the first to reach the guy Castiel, and he places his hand flat against the locker next to the blue-eyed boy's, smacking the metal a little harder than necessary.

                Castiel jumps, startled at the sudden sound, straightening up and fumbling with his backpack a little as he looks up and sees Al standing there. His blue eyes quickly jump from Al, to the others standing close behind him, taking them all in before his gaze settles on Dean. Their stares lock and Castiel's eyes widen fractionally.

                Dean hadn't really been able to see Castiel clearly at Hautley's Bend yesterday. He'd seen an attractive, pale boy from several dozen yards away, and that had been that. But up close...Castiel is _beautiful_. And it's such a strange beauty that Dean isn't sure how to interpret it. He's got an oddly angular face, creamy pale skin, and an explosion of shiny almost-black hair sticking up every which way from his head like he's just run for miles. His lips are pale pink and slightly chapped, and everything in the symmetry of his face comes together at his eyes.

                They're not just blue. They're like oceans, deep and penetrating and terrifyingly beautiful. And right now they're focused completely on Dean. It's almost too much to handle, like that cerulean gaze is carving Dean out raw. But he forces himself to hold Castiel's stare, because if he knows one thing, it's that Castiel is blushing on the outside as much as Dean is blushing on the inside.

                Dean knows he's attractive, and the look on Castiel's face yesterday at the park, the way he'd gotten flustered and flushed - which was unbelievably endearing by the way - suggests to Dean that Castiel knows it to. At least Dean has the upper hand here.

                "You're new right?" Al says, breaking the trance, and those lovely blue eyes slip back to Alastair's face.

                "Um, yes," he replies, and struggles to free one hand from the bundle in his arms, holding it out to shake, "My name is Castiel."

                " _Castiel_?" Gordon pipes up, "Weird name."

                Dean sees Castiel's throat ripple as he swallows, and he lowers his hand when Al simply looks at it and doesn't shake it. "My mother was into religious studies for a while. I'm named after an angel."

                "That's nice," Gordon says, his tone suggesting that he actually couldn't give less of a shit. Castiel seems to pick up on that instantly, and he lowers his eyes a bit. Dean watches as a sort of resignation seems to wash over Castiel - it's almost like he knows instantly that Dean and his friends are bad news. Smart guy.

                "Well, we just thought we'd welcome you to the school and wish you luck for your first day," Al says, grinning sharply. Dean can tell by the look in Castiel's eyes that he's not buying the false friendliness, but he gives a perfunctory half-smile nonetheless and nods once.

                "Thank you," is all Castiel says. Dean tries hard not to look away when Castiel glances at him again, locking eyes with him, as if waiting for Dean to do something, say something, like they know each other.

                But then Crowley bumps into Dean a little, as if waiting for him to say something too. Dean is widely known to be the wittiest in their little gang of assholes here. He's always the one who comes up with the eloquently worded phrases that end up hurting people the most. Because that's what he and his friends do. They hurt people. For fun. They're bullies. And it should bother Dean more than it does usually. It's only really bothering him now. Something is different about Castiel.

                But he shakes those thoughts aside. He has a reputation to uphold here. He clears his throat and plasters on a fake cocky grin. "Well then, good talk. See ya around, Cas," he says, winking once at the guy, who stands there dumbstruck and wide-eyed. This isn't the kind of wink he wants to give Castiel. This is a mocking wink, and the way Dean says Castiel's name isn't nicely. It's twisting the word around and making it sound ugly. Dean's good at this, hurting with words - just as good as he is at hurting with his fists. He sees it in the way Castiel's face falls slightly, as if he'd had hope that Dean would be less of a dick - like he _knows_ Dean. And that actually pisses Dean off a little.

                He nudges his friends and they all give the new boy Castiel little grins of their own, Crowley waggling his eyebrows at the guy, and Castiel stands there at his locker hugging his backpack to his chest watching after them as they saunter off down the hall like they own the place, brushing past Castiel and bumping into him a little harder than necessary, knocking him into the lockers. Zach and Gordon immediately start tearing Castiel up behind his back, loud enough to where they all know Cas can still hear them.

                And so the tormenting of Castiel begins. He's the new flavor of the month, Dean supposes. He and his friends have a few students around the school that they choose to torment on a day to day basis. Barry, a freshman with glasses too thick for his own good; Ed and Harry, a couple nerdy juniors on the school newspaper; Krissy, another senior who is distinctly outcast enough to make her an easy target; and now Castiel.

                Just before turning the corner to head to his first class, Dean glances back briefly and locks eyes with Castiel once more, and is surprised to find that the guy looks inexplicably numb as he straightens up from where one of them had shoved him into the locker. Dean's seen the expression on a lot of people that come into contact with him and his friends, but somehow it's just different on Castiel. Dean swallows down his guilt and continues walking, disappearing from sight.

 

*       *       *

 

                If there's one positive thing Castiel can say about his new school so far, it's that the cafeteria is a lot cleaner than the one at his last school in the city.

                The first half of his Monday has passed in a blur of, for the most part, either being invisible or being stared at. One of the two. He doesn't mind either of those. He's been the new kid more times than he can count, so he's used to that initial fascination people seem to have with him. The shiny new toy.

                He's sitting alone in the cafeteria now, tucked away in a corner near the back windows that reveal the forest just outside. There's a river and a bridge out there too, and a gathering of students at a pile of cement blocks and boulders smoking cigarettes and huddling together against the autumn bite.

                Castiel has purchased a small cup of fruit for lunch, but he's not very hungry, and the off-white chunks of honeydew and cantaloupe look unripe and unappetizing. They sit untouched in front of him as he focuses his attention on folding an intricate origami beetle out of brown paper. He figured he may as well get started on some origami creations for Bobby Singer before his first day of work on Saturday.

                He doesn't see the two people approaching him until they plop down across the table from him with hilarious synchronicity. He jumps a little as they do, startling him out of his origami trance, and he looks up.

                "Hi!" the girl greets, painfully enthusiastically, shooting Cas a dorky smile, her pale face framed in wild strings of bright red hair that remind Castiel a bit of Anna.

                "Hello," Castiel replies, eyeing first the red haired girl, and then the boy sitting next to her, with dark hair and eyes the color of whiskey.

                "We noticed you were sitting alone, so we figured we'd come say hey," the redhead says, extending a long slender hand, "I'm Charlie."

                Castiel looks at her hand for a moment before reminding himself that he's supposed to shake it. He quirks a small smile, glad that he's not the one extending his hand first this time, like he tried towards the strange snake-like guy with Dean in the hallway earlier. That hadn't turned out so well.

                He shakes Charlie's hand firmly, which seems to surprise her. "Castiel," he replies. Her grin widens.

                "Good to meet you Castiel."

                The boy with the whiskey eyes offers his hand up then. "I'm Gabriel, but call me Gabe," he says, and Castiel shakes the proffered hand, nodding once in greeting, trying to keep the smile on his face. He's so bad with people - sometimes it's hard to make an effort, but at least they approached him first. Not everyone has been so nice today.

                When they start digging into their own lunches, unwrapping their plastic utensils, Gabe stuffing an entire cookie into his mouth at once, Castiel just sits there and stares. People don't usually approach him like this. This is new.

                Charlie seems to notice his hesitation, but she kindly disregards it and grins through a mouthful of rubbery cafeteria spaghetti. "What are you making?" she asks, nodding towards his hands.

                He glances down. "Oh, it's origami. It's just a hobby," he replies, cradling the beetle a little closer to himself. His first instinct is to hide it - he's worried they might steal it. That's happened before, at other schools. But Charlie and Gabe seem nice enough.

                "You're pretty good at that," Gabe compliments, bits of chocolate chips stuck unattractively in his teeth. He doesn't seem to care. "I tried making one of those origami swans once, but it turned out looking like a penis."

                A small laugh is startled out of Castiel, and he glances down with a smile, fiddling with the beetle. "I've been practicing for a long time," he says, "The swan took me a while too."

                Charlie pops a soft-looking grape into her mouth. "Is today your first day? I haven't seen you around before."

                Castiel nods. "My sister and I just moved to Rail Pass on Saturday," he admits.

                "Just you and your sister? Where are your parents?" Gabe asks, a dribble of chocolate milk running down his chin. He wipes it away with his sleeve.

                Castiel shrugs. "They work. They'll be gone for a while."

                "Sweet! Party house! Got the place all to yourself!" Gabriel whoops with a laugh.

                Castiel chuckles a little. “Well, I suppose if I knew anyone here, I could have a party.”

                “You know us!” Charlie points out, “But, don’t have a party. Gabe is a troublemaker. He’ll get the cops called on you.”

                “That was _one_ time like fifty years ago!” Gabe exclaims defensively, throwing the top half of an Oreo at Charlie. She catches it smoothly and pops it into her mouth.

                “Community service does not an apology make,” Charlie retorts, muffled as she chews.

                Castiel watches them bicker with mild fascination. “Are you two together?” he asked.

                Gabriel chokes on his milk, sputtering and coughing, and Charlie slaps his back a few times calmly, as if this happens all the time. “No, fortunately, we’re not,” she replies with an easy smile.

                “She’s gayer than a rainbow thong,” Gabe manages to choke out through his coughing. A couple tears slide down his red face.

                “Oh,” Castiel nods, “Well that’s alright too.”

                “Oh it’s _very_ alright,” Gabriel drawls, clearing his throat and sniffing, still managing to waggle his eyebrows lasciviously.

                Charlie slaps the back of his head. “Pervert.”

                “What? What’s _not_ hot about two chicks making out? It’s like the plotline of every good porno on the planet,” Gabe  defends, “Right, dude?” Gabe nods at Cas expectantly, still stifling little coughs as the last of the milk works its way out of his lungs.

                “Oh, I uh, I wouldn’t know…I’m admittedly more of the, uh, _rainbow thong_ variety, as it were,” Castiel admits quietly, nodding towards Charlie. He regrets the confession the second it leaves his mouth. He doesn’t know these two. They seem nice, but he’s new here, and the topic of his sexuality hasn’t been very welcome in a lot of places he’s lived before. He bites his tongue and waits for the bad reaction.

                Instead, Charlie lets out a triumphant holler. “Score one for the gay team! Hell yeah!” she laughs, jabbing a finger into Gabe’s chest.

                “Okay okay! You win homo! Quit poking me!” Gabriel complains, slapping her hand away and taking an aggressive bite of another cookie.

                Castiel lets out an inconspicuous sigh of relief. At least there are some accepting people here, even if Dean’s group from this morning had left him with a heavy feeling in his gut.

                “So have you ever done theatre?” Charlie asks him.

                Castiel cocks his head. “No,” he replies, “I’ve never really stayed long enough in one place to give it a try.”

                “You really move around a lot, don’t you?” she asks.

                He nods. “My parents never really wanted to settle down anywhere, so…” he trails off. He doesn’t know what else to say about it. Charlie seems to pick up on that and lets it go.

                “Well, do you want to try it out?” she asks, “Theatre, I mean. We haven’t had our first meeting yet, so it’s not too late to sign up. It’s really fun – I think you’d love a lot of the students in the club.”

                “Jesus Charlie, just ‘cause he’s gay doesn’t mean he wants to be in theatre,” Gabe snorts, licking Oreo filling off his fingertips.

                “ _You’re_ in theatre, Mr. Straight-As-Boxer-Briefs,” Charlie points out. 

                “We’re all a little gay inside,” Gabriel argues with another saucy wink, earning him another smack on the back of the head.

                Castiel chuckles a little. “I’ll have to think about it. How do I sign up?”

                Charlie grins widely. “You just go onto the school website and look for the tab for after school activities. The sign up form is right there. And…” she hesitates for a moment, “Well you need a parental signature but…if your parents aren’t around to sign it, you can always get another adult or maybe a faculty member to sign off for you.”

                Castiel purses his lips and glances down, rolling the corner of the beetle’s wing between his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll have to check it out,” he agrees, lost in thought, trying to think of an adult who would be willing to sign something like that for him. The only two adults he really officially knows here are Missouri and Bobby Singer. Maybe one of them…

                Theatre does sound fun. Castiel has never had friends before, not really. He had a friend Brady his freshman year when he’d lived in California, but it had turned out Brady was only pretending to be his friend to get answers on his history homework. Charlie and Gabe seem different though. Maybe theatre is a good idea. Maybe he can meet people this way. Maybe Rail Pass doesn’t have to be another awful pit stop on his way to college.

                “So what classes are you taking?” Charlie asks, breaking Castiel out of his daydreams.

                He looks up at her. “Oh, just the general credits I need left to graduate. I just have math and economics left today.”

                Gabe makes a gagging sound. “I hated Econ,” he says, “But it’s easy.”

                “I’ve taken it before,” Castiel says, “But for some reason some of my credits didn’t transfer over when I changed schools. It happens sometimes, so I’m just taking it again.”

                “Dude, that sucks!” Charlie exclaims.

                Castiel pops his eyebrows and nods. “Yeah, I know. I’m pretty behind in all my classes right now actually. But it’s only my first day so hopefully I have a chance to catch up.”

                “We can help you if you want,” Charlie offers, “If you ever want to get together after school or whatever.”

                Castiel holds up his hands. “Oh, no, that’s really not…I mean, you don’t have to do that,” he begins to protest, “I’m sure you guys have things you’d rather be doing.”

                “Nonsense!” Gabe denies, “Friends help friends right?”

                Castiel blinks owlishly at him. “Friends?”

                “Yeah! Duh,” Gabriel rolls his eyes. Then he grabs Castiel’s hand and whips out a pen, pulling the cap off with his teeth. Castiel just sits there and watches as Gabe writes two phone numbers on his palm. “There,” he says once he finishes, slurring his words as he talks through the pen cap between his teeth, “That’s mine, and that’s Charlie’s. Call us whenever and we can hang out.” He pulls the pen cap out of his mouth, slurping as saliva connects his lip to the plastic.

                “You have my number memorized?” Charlie asks, “That’s not creepy.”

                Castiel looks at the numbers scrawled on his hand, his mind reeling. They seem to notice his hesitation.

                “Castiel?” Charlie asks, “Everything ok? His handwriting sucks, I know.”

                He huffs a small breath as Gabe flicks Charlie in the elbow. “Yes, everything’s fine, it’s just…”

                “What?” Gabe asks, “I can have her write the numbers for you if you can’t read them. My handwriting really is shit, I won’t be offended.”

                Castiel shakes his head. “No, I can read them, it’s just…I’ve…,” he hesitates, biting his lip, and then stops himself. He wants to tell them that he’s never had friends before, that no one has ever come up and offered their friendship to him like Gabriel and Charlie are doing to him now. He wants to tell them how grateful he is. But he also doesn’t want to scare them away with his sob story. So he shakes his head a little. “Never mind,” he says, looking up at them and smiling. It’s a genuine smile – he doesn’t even have to force it.

                “You alright kiddo?” Gabe asks, eyeing him pensively.

                “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, “Thank you for the phone numbers. I’ll save them.”

                “Cool,” Charlie smiles, “Text me so I can have your number too. We should get together soon.”

                “Yeah, definitely,” Castiel smiles, feeling warmth brimming in his gut. So this is what it feels like to have friends? He’s been missing out.

                That warmth, however, sizzles and dies when Castiel happens to glance behind Charlie and Gabe to see Dean walk into the cafeteria. The gorgeous green-eyed boy isn’t alone. The four guys he was with this morning, including the one with the hissing voice who had initially approached Cas at his locker, are with him.

                As he watches them, Dean glances around, and his eyes fall upon Castiel. Cas watches as Dean stumbles a bit when he sees him, but then the initial surprise on his face glazes over to a cold stare. It’s a look that Castiel is familiar with. A classic don’t-get-in-my-way-or-I’ll-rearrange-your-face look. Castiel is used to people looking at him like that.

                But it’s weird on Dean, because he’s seen other looks on Dean’s face before too, in the short time he’s known the guy. Dean had hesitated this morning, when his friends were harassing Castiel at his locker. Cas had _seen_ Dean hesitate, and he’d seen the exact moment Dean had decided to go along with his friends instead of sticking up for Cas. Not that Cas expected any less. No one sticks up for him.

                But even if Castiel hadn’t seen Dean hesitate like that, he’d seen Dean yesterday at Hautley’s Bend. He’d seen that tiny smile he’d given Castiel as he was walking away. That’s not a smile someone just _forgets_. It was warm, and soft, and endearing, and totally _real_. It wasn’t the snide, fake, mocking smile Dean had given him at his locker earlier when he was with his friends.

                There is more to Dean than Dean is letting on – that much is already clear to Castiel.

                He doesn’t even know why he cares.

                Gabe snaps in Castiel’s face a couple times. “You hear me kiddo?”

                Castiel blinks, looking at Gabriel. “What?”

                “I asked if you’re gonna eat that,” Gabe says, nodding towards Castiel’s unripe fruit cup.

                “Oh, uh, no, you can have it if you want,” Castiel says, glancing at Dean and his gang again. They’re in the lunch line, and Dean’s back is to him. His broad back…a lovely back…

                Castiel shakes his head. _No._ He cannot start lusting after some guy who hangs out with people like the four guys Dean is with. He knows the type. It’s already starting, the bullying. Castiel is a seasoned professional in the field. What happened this morning was minimal at most, being pushed into a locker. But he knows from experience that it will escalate. He can’t allow himself to have a crush on a guy who hangs out with people like that just because the guy is _pretty_. And tall. And wears a leather jacket…

                No. No attraction there. None.

                “Who are those guys?” Castiel asks. Charlie glances back and sees Dean and his gang.

                “Oh, you don’t want to get mixed up with them,” she warns, shaking her head, her eyes wide as she sips some apple juice, “They’re bad news.”

                “How so?” Castiel asks, cocking his head to the side.

                “They have a reputation,” Gabe supplies, “That one, Gordon,” – he nods his head toward the dark skinned one behind Dean – “put a guy in the hospital a couple years ago for taking his seat in the auditorium.”

                “And Zachariah there was so mean to this girl Krissy in my physics class, that she’s getting counseling now for depression,” Charlie says.

                “I thought her dad died,” Gabe says, confused.

                Charlie purses her lips, and then shakes her head once. “Maybe, but Zach was a dick about it. Didn’t help at all.”

                “What about Dean?” Castiel asks.

                Charlie raises her eyebrows. “You know Dean Winchester?”

                “Well, not really,” Cas shrugs, “I met his brother yesterday at Hautley’s Bend. Dean was there.”

                “Ah, well, steer clear of him too,” Charlie says, “He’s dangerous.”

                “Dangerous?” Castiel asks skeptically, eyebrows pressing together.

                Gabe and Charlie exchange a glance, and then Gabe leans forward. “Let’s just say that no one gets in his way and lives to talk about it.”

                Charlie smacks him. “Oh stop being so dramatic!” she exclaims, and then turns to Cas, “Dean’s just got a bad rep like the rest of them. And he’s done his fair share of fighting here. He’s just not a good guy to get mixed up with.”

                Castiel peeks at Dean again, but his back is still turned. “How do you guys know everything people say is true? I mean what if Dean’s not such a bad guy?”

                Gabe chuckles. “You’re really carrying the torch for him aren’t you?”

                Castiel flushes in embarrassment. “No, I don’t even know him, I’m just saying…”

                Gabe nods and waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, no, I get it, Dean is an attractive guy, but trust us. He’s bad news Castiel. If you ever need proof, just check out his hands.”

                “His hands?”

                “His knuckles are all scarred up from all the fights he’s been in,” Charlie says, “Gabe and I have seen a few of them – the guy just likes to beat up on people weaker than him. His friends do it too.”

                Cas looks up at Dean as he hands the lunch lady a crumpled up dollar bill from his pocket.

                “See that guy in front of him? The one who doesn’t know the definition of personal space?” Gabe asks. Castiel realizes he’s referring to the serpent guy who approached him at his locker earlier. “That’s Alastair,” Gabe says, “He’s got this weird obsession with Dean, like a crush or something. This girl Lisa tried to ask Dean out last year and ended up in the hospital with a broken nose.”

                Castiel’s eyes bug out of his head. “How do you know it was Alastair that did it?”

                “Everyone knows,” Charlie and Gabe say at the same time.

                Castiel eyes them, trying to tell whether they’re serious or not. “This is a pretty intense high school,” he says.

                Gabe chuckles. “This is every high school if you have the right number of scumbags that go there. Trust me, Dean and his gang are not your friends.”

                Castiel studies the gang as they saunter out the back door with their food, heading towards the collection of rocks and cement blocks near the bridge and the river outside where the smokers are. Castiel watches in fascination as all the smokers already gathered there see Dean and his friends coming, and immediately stomp out their cigarettes and scatter, leaving the area free for the gang.

                “Who’s the short one with them?” Castiel asks.

                Gabe glances over. “That’s Crowley. He’s a British exchange student, but I think he lives here permanently now.”

                Castiel nods, but he can’t stop staring at them as they settle on the rocks. Dean lights up a cigarette, and God if it isn’t the hottest thing Cas has ever seen when Dean’s cheeks hollow out as he inhales. He’s like a walking sex object, even with the crescent bruise adorning his eye.

                “Jesus kiddo, you look like a love struck puppy!” Gabe laughs, smacking the side of his head to get his attention.

                Castiel blinks and tears his eyes away from Dean. “What?”

                “You have to stop looking at Dean like he’s a sandwich,” Charlie says with a sympathetic smile, patting Cas’s arm, “Trust us when we say he’s not a good guy to get mixed up with.”

                Castiel starts to deny it, but then realizes they’re right. He sighs, dropping his chin to his hand, daring one last glance out the window.

                “There are lots of cute guys in theatre,” Charlie offers encouragingly.

                Castiel give her a half-hearted smile. “I’ll sign up tonight. I’ll find someone to sign the parental consent portion.”

                “Yay!” Charlie cheers, clapping her hands, at the same time as Gabe whoops, “Hells yeah!”

                Cas smiles at their enthusiasm, and as they make idle chatter for the rest of the lunch period before the bell rings, he forces himself to not once look out that window and watch Dean with his friends.

                Even when he swears – with his crazy, over-stressed mind – that he can feel Dean staring in at him. 

 

*       *       *

 

                When Dean gets home that night, it’s to a quiet and dark house. John must be out at the bars late again. Dean wonders how long he’ll be gone this time. A few hours, a few days?

                He’s stopped caring really.

                The front door is unlocked, and creaks on its old hinges as he opens it. He leaves it unlocked so John doesn’t get pissed off and break it down in a drunken rage later when he returns – if he returns. It’s happened before. Dean’s learned how to adapt. And how to fix doors.

                “Sammy?” he calls out as he drops his backpack in the tiny front hall, then thinks better of it and scoops it back up again, carrying it to his bedroom where it’ll be safer.

                “In my room!” Sam calls from the back of the house.

                Dean makes his way back there and pushes Sam’s door open, slipping inside. “Dad home?” He already knows the answer to that, but he has to hold onto hope.

                Sam just gives him a pointed look, as if to say _what do you think?_

                “Right,” Dean mumbles, flopping back on Sam’s bed and tucking one arm behind his head, staring up at the chipped ceiling. The light in Sam’s room has been broken for a couple years now, so Sam uses candles and a lamp without a shade to light the place. At night, he has those glow-in-the-dark stars and moons stuck to his ceiling that give him a sense of peace. Sweat is already beading on Dean’s brow. The candles make the room about twenty degrees hotter than the rest of the house.

                “Where were you?’ Sam asks distractedly, scribbling something in what looks like a math workbook. Good kid – always doing his homework.

                “Went to hang out with Crowley at Ghost Town,” Dean replies, glancing at the digital clock on Sam’s nightstand guiltily. He should have been home hours ago. It’s already dark outside – Sam has been alone all this time.

                “You guys shouldn’t be hanging around out there at night,” Sam scolds.

                “Why? Because it’s haunted?” Dean teases, tossing a ball of lint at Sam’s fluffy head that he found on the fraying comforter. It sticks to Sam’s hair. He doesn’t notice.

                “No jerk, because there are wild animals that get into those old train cars,” Sam says matter-of-factly, “It’s stupid to go out there.”

                Dean chuckles, picking the lint out of Sam’s hair before he notices it’s there. “I appreciate the concern Sammy; gets me all tingly when you care like that.”

                Sam scoffs. “Shut up.”

                Dean grins, rolling onto his side, picking at the lint with his blunt fingernails. His clothing reeks of cigarettes so badly he can smell himself. He wonders how Sammy doesn’t mind it.

                On the outskirts of Rail Pass, no more than a mile or two from the high school, there’s a group of old abandoned train cars where hooligans like Dean go when they want to get away from adults and authority. The cops don’t even go out there more than once a month or so. No one does, as far as Dean can tell, except for him and his friends. As such, the area has been nicknamed Ghost Town, and it’s one of Dean’s friends’ favorite places to go.

                Sam finishes scribbling the last couple notes into his workbook and then flips it shut, sighing heavily and tossing it aside on the floor.

                “All done?” Dean asks, unable to stop the swell of pride in his chest. Sammy is only in seventh grade, but Dean can tell the kid is going places.

                “Done,” Sam sighs in relief, pushing himself to his feet, knees popping as he does. He crawls over Dean and collapses on the empty side of the bed closest to the wall. Dean rolls over so he’s on his side facing Sam, and throws the lint ball at him again. It hits Sam in the face this time and he snorts and brushes it away, sticking his tongue out at Dean. Dean laughs.

                “So I saw that girl Anna at school today,” Sam says.

                Dean stiffens a little. “Yeah?”

                “Yeah,” Sam says, “I didn’t really get a chance to talk to her since she’s in sixth grade. They keep all the grades separated so I only spotted her in the hallway a couple times between classes.”

                Dean clears his throat, swallowing back the taste of cigarettes on his tongue. “Hm,” is all he says.

                Sam looks over at him. “Did you see her brother at school today? Castiel?” he asks, eyeing Dean, “He seemed nice.”

                Dean keeps his eyes down, fiddling with the comforter, wishing he had that lint ball still to keep his hands busy. “Yeah, I saw him,” he says, “Didn’t get a chance to say hi though.”

                He feels bad lying to Sammy, but what is he supposed to say? He doesn’t want Sam to know that he’s a dick and a bully and that Dean’s friends have inadvertently chosen Castiel as their new target of choice. Sure, maybe he has some say in the matter, but he’d rather not fight with his friends.

                Castiel is a loser. A hot loser, but still a loser. And Dean and his friends don’t associate themselves with losers. No - they beat them down, show them their place. They’re the lowest of the low on the food chain. And if Dean wants to retain his rank, keep his bad reputation from getting any worse, he’ll remember that fact every time he sees Castiel and wants to ogle at his big blue eyes instead of hit his books out of his hands.

                “Dean, you okay man?” Sam asks, eyeing him.

                Dean blinks and looks at his brother. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine dude,” he says, brushing off Sam’s worried look. He pushes himself up from the bed. “You want some dinner? I’m assuming you haven’t eaten yet.”

                Sam sits up and scratches the back of his head, mussing up his shaggy hair like a dog shaking its ears. “Yeah sure, I think there’s some leftover Hamburger Helper.”

                “What a treat,” Dean drawls sarcastically, his stomach already hating him for what he’s about to do to it by eating the processed crap.

                They wander out into the kitchen, the cheap linoleum crackling underfoot, and it takes Dean no more than a few minutes to heat up the Hamburger Helper. It’s slimy and gooey and all kinds of awful, but they force themselves to eat it since there’s really nothing else in the house.

                A few hours later, Sam decides to call it a night after they’ve sat up and watched crappy late-night TV. Dean elects to sleep in Sam’s not-quite-a-queen-but-bigger-than-a-twin bed tonight with him just in case John happens to come home and isn’t in a good mood.

                His brother passes out almost instantly, snoring into the wall, no doubt exhausted from all the hard work he’s been doing. The kid is a genius, straight A’s since his teachers started letter grading. And before that it was nothing but gold stars and certificates of achievement that Sam was to bring home and show his parents to let them see how good he was doing in school. Sam had always brought them home and showed them to Dean instead. He has a whole folder of them tucked away somewhere safe in his closet. It’s where he’ll keep Sam’s diplomas, and other awards in the future, that he knows Sam will earn.

                Dean doesn’t personally expect to excel like that, but he has Sammy to be proud of anyway.

                He sighs and stares up at the glowing stars and moons and planets on the ceiling, little green dots in the darkness of the room, and he forces himself to pretend that the last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep is not an origami beetle.


	3. Learn to Hate

                It’s been a week. It’s been one week, and already Castiel has learned so much.

                That’s not to say that he’s learned things that are at all _useful_ per se, but he’s learned one thing for certain: Rail Pass is unlike any other place he’s ever lived before. But in some ways, it’s also remarkably the same.

                The whole concept of having friends is new to him. Gabriel and Charlie so far are turning out to be strangely loyal. And Missouri Moseley next door has certainly proven herself to be every bit as motherly and eccentric as Castiel first pegged her to be. He and Anna have already received two casseroles, one of which contained pickled quail eggs.

                Castiel didn’t even know those exist. Apparently they do.

                And then there are the Five Cancers. That’s what Castiel has taken to calling them, Dean and his friends. He doesn’t _want_ to include Dean in that category, but Dean is giving him no choice.

                Castiel had wanted to believe that there is something more to Dean than what his reputation says, and frankly, he still believes there is. But it’s a side of Dean that Dean is not showing _anybody_ , let alone Castiel, and he has no reason to either. They don’t know each other, no matter how lovely that smile at Hautley’s Bend had been when Cas had first seen him.

                So he considers Dean part of the Five Cancers. Every high school has them, those little flaws that make things less than perfect. Those people that ruin the good, or at least mar it, for everyone else. Castiel has made it a point to learn their names, their methods of torment, and to avoid them at all costs. It’s for the best. If he sees them coming, he walks the other way.

                But, naturally, he couldn’t avoid them forever. They do go to the same school after all. He’s been able to get away with icy glares and the occasional shove in the hallway from the Cancers so far. Sometimes it’s all five of them together, and sometimes it’s only two or three. Castiel sees them messing with other students too – he’s thankful he’s not the only one they’ve chosen to target, but he feels bad for the other students. Maybe he shouldn’t, because he’s on their same level. He’s a target too. But he feels bad anyway. He can’t help himself.

                He also can’t help the fact that every time he sees Dean Winchester, he feels a little weak in the knees, and not weak-in-the-knees-scared like he should be, but weak-in-the-knees-love-struck-teenager. Which is just all kinds of sick. Maybe he’s finally cracked. Maybe he’s grown to enjoy being treated like a wad of gum on the sole of some bully’s shoe.

And it doesn’t help that he and Dean are in the same math class. But so far, Dean has left him alone in there. They sit on opposite sides of the classroom, and apart from the occasional awkward eye contact, they’re perfect strangers. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s progress, since it seems that Dean is only really mean to Castiel when he’s with his friends. Dean never taunts Castiel when the other Cancers aren’t there.

                It’s Monday morning his second week of school. The days are getting colder as September draws to an end, and Castiel huddles in on himself as he approaches the high school visible through the break in the trees ahead. He’d originally been waking up much earlier than necessary to get Anna to school on time on the handlebars of his bike, but then Missouri had informed him that she works as a nurse at the K-8 school, and had offered to give Anna rides in the morning. Anna had grumbled and complained, saying that Jesse keeps playing pranks on her in the car, but then relented when she saw how tired Castiel is after only a week of his senior year.

                It had rained the night before and the ground squelches and shines underfoot as Castiel breaks free of the trees and begins making his way across the parking lot towards the school. He smells cigarette smoke in the air but disregards it. He learned last week that the place is called The Docks, the place where all the smokers, including the Cancers, hang out to get their fix. Castiel must pass by it every day on his way to school.

                He doesn’t know what took the Cancers so long to notice this.

                His shoes splash in tiny puddles left over from the rain in the parking lot as he walks, but after a few moments, he realizes that it’s not just his footsteps he’s hearing. Someone is following him.

                His stomach drops a little. It could be anybody – just another student heading to school like he is. He’s not the only one who uses that path through the woods to walk to school after all.

                But something tells him it’s not just another student. He glances over his shoulder and has to suppress a shiver of dread when he sees three of the Cancers following him. Gordon and Al, if he remembers their names correctly, and of course, Dean himself. Gordon and Al lead the pack, about ten feet or so behind Castiel, with Dean trailing behind them, sucking on the last remains of his cigarette before flicking it into a puddle.

                Al gives Castiel a toothy grin when he sees him peek over his shoulder at them, and Castiel swallows hard, facing front again and continuing forward, holding onto the straps of his backpack a bit tighter and picking up his pace. He doesn’t know why he thinks that they’ll stop following him if he just gets to the school and gets inside, but he’s got to have a little hope and a goal in mind, so he eyes the door and makes that his destination. _Get to the door, get to the door, get to the door, don’t look back, just get inside._

                He knows this won’t end well. Knows from years of experience with Cancers just like these ones. It was only a matter of time.

                “Hey, Castiel, wait up!” he hears Gordon’s voice call out, “We wanna ask you something.”

                Castiel doesn’t respond, walking faster, and gritting his teeth when he hears them pick up the pace too.

                “Come on, man, don’t be like that!” Gordon laughs, “We just wanna talk!”

                _Sure you do_ , Castiel thinks to himself, his shoe landing in a particularly large puddle and splashing water up on his pant leg. He glances down at it and grimaces.

                “Are you ignoring us, Castiel?” he hears Al’s nasally voice ask, sounding a lot closer than before, “You know that’s rude.”

                Castiel flinches when he feels a bony hand at his elbow, and instinctively yanks his arm free.

                Bad idea.

                Next thing he knows, two sets of hands are grabbing him, and he’s spun around, coming face-to-face with Alastair and Gordon, his backpack falling off of him and landing somewhere on the ground. They’re both smiling, but it’s an ugly smile. They grip his arms tightly.

                “Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay?” Cas hears himself saying pathetically, “Please, just leave me alone.”

                Gordon and Al both laugh, and Castiel is shocked to hear Dean laughing too from behind them. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised that Dean is playing along. He’s just another Cancer. Castiel has no idea why he has this weird faith in the guy. He shouldn’t.

                His eyes search for Dean, but he can’t see over Gordon or Al’s shoulders where they’ve come together hovering in front of him, holding him in such a way that he’s leaning back, tipping off-balance.

                “Now is that any way to treat your new friends?” Gordon asks, “We just wanted to talk.”

                Castiel swallows hard, trying to subtly slip his arms out of their grips, but they only hold harder. “What do you want?” he asks, and _God_ his voice sounds a lot more pathetic than he thought it would. And _holy shit_ , he realizes he’s actually scared right now. Whether it’s past experience sending off warning bells in his head, or the fact that he just really, _really_ doesn’t want to deal with bullies again, his heart is pounding in his chest, and his throat is dry.

                “All I wanted to know was where you got this shirt,” Gordon says, eyeing Castiel’s simple plain black t-shirt, “Because Dean here’s been looking for one just like it.”

                Castiel’s eyebrows press together as Dean comes forward and steps between Al and Gordon right up in Castiel’s personal space. “Yeah man, you know, it’s a really nice shirt,” Dean drawls, “I’d really like to get one. Can you help me out?” Dean’s fingers come up and run along the collar of Castiel’s shirt, and for a moment, Cas can’t breathe. This is the nearest he’s ever been to Dean, and up close like this, in the gray light of morning, Dean is even more beautiful that Castiel thought. And it _hurts_ how unfair it is.

                When Castiel says nothing, Dean’s mossy glittering eyes flick up to his, and there’s something there, something communicated for a brief moment, but Castiel doesn’t catch it before that mask is back up and in place and Dean is playing along with his friends again.

                “I don’t really think it’s fair that Castiel gets to have a nice shirt like this when you can’t, is it?” Al says to Dean, and Cas sees a brief flittering dislike flicker across Dean’s face when Al addresses him directly, but that too disappears behind the mask again.

                There is so much going on in this boy’s head that he doesn’t let people see. Except, Castiel _can_ see it, especially up close like this.

                Dean’s fingers drop away from Castiel’s collar, and Cas mourns the loss of the touch. “No, you’re right, it’s not fair,” Dean agrees, locking eyes with Castiel again.

                “What do you think Cas? You think that’s fair?” Gordon asks.

                Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Dean, swallowing convulsively, his heart pounding. And he knows that no matter what he says, these guys are going to carry on doing exactly what they planned. It doesn’t matter what Cas says now. This he knows from experience. There’s no way to stop this from running its course.

                His lack of response earns him a smack on the side of his head from Gordon. “He’s ignoring us again!” Gordon exclaims, “Can you believe this guy?”

                Castiel blinks a couple times, his brain catching up to the fact that Gordon just hit him. _The first hit_ , he thinks. He feels pathetic for not fighting back, but that’s something that Castiel never does. He doesn’t fight. He’s not a fighter. That’s something he doesn’t believe in. So no matter how many Cancers he has to deal with in his life, he will never fight back. He promised himself that a long time ago. He will not hurt another human being, even if they’re hurting him.

                One of Alastair’s bony hands releases Castiel’s arm, coming up and taking his jaw in a tight grip and turning his face towards him. Al looks older this close up. Castiel had heard somewhere that Al is twenty-one, and has just been held back in high school for a couple years. He didn’t believe it at first, but now, up close like this, seeing the age difference, he realizes it’s true. He doesn’t know why the fact that Al is older makes this more scary, but it does.

                “The way I see it is, you got one of two options,” Al says, suddenly very serious, like this is the most relevant conversation and situation in the world, “You can either give Dean your shirt and take the generous route, or you can keep the shirt but make it so no one wants it. Make it ugly. It’s your choice.”

                Castiel knows this isn’t about the shirt. It’s just a shirt, a plain black t-shirt. This has nothing to do with a shirt. This has to do with power. And maybe from the outside, listening to this conversation is borderline humorous. All this over a shirt. But it’s not about that. This is all about the Cancers showing Castiel that they’re stronger than him, that they’re better, that he doesn’t own this school, that they do.

                Castiel says nothing, gritting his teeth, his jaw aching where Al is holding a bit too tightly. When they realize he’s not going to say anything, Dean chuckles a little, and Castiel’s eyes snap to his face.

                “Have it your way,” Dean says, and suddenly Gordon and Al both let go of him, at the same time as Dean’s hands shoot out and connect with his chest, sending Castiel flying backwards off-balance. He topples to the ground, and before he can ponder to himself what the point of pushing him over was, he lands in a massive puddle of mud, feeling it immediately begin to soak into the back of his shirt where he landed. Not only is it soaking the entire backside of his shirt, it’s also seeping into his hair and the seat of his pants. _Great_.

                The three Cancers walk away laughing, Gordon “accidentally” tripping over Castiel as they do, kicking him hard in the ribs and leaving a wet boot print. “I guess he chose option two. That is one ugly ass shirt now,” he hears Gordon say as they walk away, disappearing seconds later inside the school just as the five minute warning bell rings.

                Castiel groans, cradling his ribs in one hand and grimacing as he feels mud dripping down the back of his neck. He only allows himself to lay there for a few seconds before forcing himself to stand. He has to go get cleaned up quickly if he wants to make it to his first class on time.

                He stands shakily, knowing there’s worse to come from the Cancers in the future, knowing that this will only escalate. It always does.

                He gets some weird stares as he makes his way into the school, his backpack dangling from one hand so he doesn't get it all muddy like the rest of him. It's not a particularly large school, so he's had a chance in the past week to orient himself enough to find the bathroom closest to the front entrance. When he pushes through the bathroom door, there are two other guys in there, who stare at him as he makes his way dejectedly to the sinks, dropping his bag on the ground.

                The two other guys in there leave without a word, and Castiel pulls in a deep breath, holding it for a moment and releasing slowly, ignoring the throb in his ribs where Gordon kicked him. Gripping the edges of the sink, he raises his eyes and looks at himself in the mirror.

                He has to look away almost as soon as he sees himself.

                He's pathetic. And he knows he shouldn't be letting a group of bullies make him feel this way, but it's not just that. He _knows_ he's pathetic. Because he won't ever fight back. Never. It's not in him to fight. He lets people hurt him like this, and does nothing about it. Because it's _wrong_ to hurt people. That's what he tells himself. Even if they're hurting him.

                Shaking his head in disgust with himself, he twists on the faucet, pulling his shirt off and laying it out on the counter, wiping as much of the mud away as he can with a wet paper towel. It doesn't do much good, and the mud on his pants is already drying, stiff and uncomfortable. He gives up on trying to clean the shirt off, pushing it aside and tilting his head forward, dunking it under the running water and getting as much of the mud out of his hair as possible.

                When he puts his shirt back on, he has to suppress a shiver. It's wet and cold and tacky against his skin.

                And then he just stands there.

                Even when he hears the bell ring, signaling that class has begun, he just stands there.

                For some reason, he can't bring his feet to move. He can't go out there and go to class like this. He'll be laughed at. It's never fun to be the butt of the jokes.

                He doesn't have long to ponder what he's going to do, though, because the bathroom door swings open no more than ten minutes later, and by some hilarious twist of fate, it's Gabriel that walks through the door. He's whistling to himself and swinging his hall pass around by its string.

                When he spots Castiel, he throws his arms up with a huge smile on his face. "Cassie!" he greets excitedly, "Fancy seeing you here!"

                Castiel gives him a halfhearted smile, hugging himself and rocking from one foot to the other, unsure what to do. His skin is prickling with goose bumps from his wet clothing.

                "Whoa kiddo, what happened?" Gabe asks, his eyes taking in Castiel's muddy clothes and sopping hair sticking up in clumps from his head.

                Castiel shrugs a little. "I suppose I'm their favorite new toy," he says.

                "Who?"

                Castiel picks at his wet clothes. "Dean and his friends," he says, "I'm not sure I can go to class like this."

                "Damn, I was worried this might happen," Gabriel says, eyeing him up and down, "Are you alright? You should go to the principal or something. They're bad news Cas."

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, raising his eyebrow. "Do you really think a guy like Principal Roman is going to care about something like this? I mean I've only been here a week, and I can already tell he doesn't know any of our names."

                Gabe purses his lips. "Okay, yeah, you got me there."

                Castiel gives him a small smile, looking back down at his clothes. He doesn't really want to leave the school, but he can't go to class like this either. "I think I'm going to head home for the day," he tells Gabe, "I can't stay here like this."

                When he tries to step past Gabriel, Gabe holds up his hands. "No, no, no, wait, wait," he says, "You can't just leave. Come on, they have costume clothes in the theatre - we'll find you something to wear."

                "Gabe-" Castiel starts to protest.            

                "No, man, look," Gabe says taking his shoulders in hand and shaking him once, "You can't let these guys get to you, alright? I want you to do something for me."

                Castiel cocks his head to the side. "What?"

                "I want you to not give them the satisfaction of thinking they've won, okay?" Gabe pleads.

                Castiel's eyebrows press together. "What do you mean?"

                "You can't let them get to you," he says, "So next time they start messing with you, I want you to promise me something."

                "Okay?" Castiel agrees hesitantly.

                "I want you to promise me that you're going to act like it doesn't bother you at all," Gabe says firmly, and it's almost laughable how serious he sounds, "Just take it in stride and don't give them the satisfaction of thinking they've gotten under your skin."

                Castiel looks at him for a moment, and is surprised to find that he actually feels better. "Alright," he says with a small hesitant smile, "I promise." Castiel is used to bullies. He's used to dealing with bad people like this. He's used to feeling dejected and lonely. What he's not used to is having someone like Gabriel there to say things like this. To pick him up when he's down. This is new. Everything is new.

                "Good," Gabe says, patting Castiel once on the shoulder, "Now, I'm gonna take a leak and then we can go find you some clothes."

                Cas nods and turns to pick up his backpack. He eyes himself in the mirror, feeling a little less pathetic than before, running his hand through his wet hair and mussing it up in stringy spikes that stick up every which way. There's no taming it today. He sighs and hugs his backpack to his chest, trying to warm himself up as much as possible.

                When Gabe is finished, he leads him out of the bathroom and across the school, into the green room of the theatre and back into the costume closet. It's an impressive collection for a small town high school, but most of it is sequined and ruffled and not appropriate to be wearing around school for a day. But Gabriel pulls out a large gray plastic bin full of less-ridiculous-looking costume clothes and begins rifling through them.

                "We did _The Crucible_ a couple years ago for the winter play," Gabe explains, holding up a dark gray button-down shirt to Castiel's torso, measuring it out, "We have these left over from the men's costumes, just in case we need peasant clothes or something."

                Gabe slings the shirt over Castiel's shoulder once he decides that it will fit, and dives back in to find a pair of pants he can wear. Castiel lets his fingers run over the cheap material, and then removes his t-shirt, pulling the dry costume shirt over his head. It's a bit big, but it's dry and warm and smells like dust. He rolls up the sleeves so they're not hanging over his hands.

                "Gabe?" he asks.

                "Hm?"

                Castiel hesitates. "Why are you helping me?"

                Gabe glances up at him. "Why wouldn't I?"

                Cas shrugs. "It's just...not normal, I guess. People aren't this nice."

                Gabe chuckles, straightening up, holding two pairs of pants, one in each hand. "Actually Cas, people _are_. I just don't think you've ever been around good people. And I'm awesome."

                Castiel chuckles a little and lowers his eyes, scratching the back of his neck.

                Gabe studies him for a moment, and then sighs. "Look," he says, "I get the vibe from you that you haven't had many friends, am I right?"

                Castiel looks up at him, flushing red a bit in embarrassment. He nods his head.

                Gabe smiles a little. "Well then you're just gonna have to get used to the fact that I'm your friend, okay? Friends help each other. That's why we're here."

                Castiel stares at him with round eyes. "But why me? Why do you want to be my friend?"

                Gabriel laughs. "Because that was one sick ass origami beetle you were making the other day," he says, "And because you're cool. Now try these on and see if they fit." He tosses a pair of brown pants at Castiel, and Cas fumbles to catch them.

                Gabriel turns and begins throwing the clothes back into the plastic bin, and as Castiel changes out of his muddy pants, he can't help the tiny smile that pulls at the corners of his lips. He decides he could get used to this "having friends" thing.

                He doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the day. Because even if he has to deal with the Cancers, he has Gabriel, and he has Charlie, and that seems worth it to him. He doesn't even stop smiling when he walks into the math class he shares with Dean, and they lock eyes briefly. Castiel sees Dean look at him up and down, taking in Castiel's new clothes, and then giving Castiel an odd look when he sees that Castiel looks happy.

                And Cas doesn't blame him. A smile must look kind of weird when he's wearing it.

 

*       *       *

 

                **_OCTOBER_**

 

                The sky is clear blue and cold when Crowley leads Dean to Ghost Town two weeks later in early October. It's not unusual for them to skip school to come out here and do whatever it is that they do with their free time. There are only about seven or eight old train cars abandoned out here right on the edge of town, in a clearing in the forest, but Dean and his friends always meet in the same one.

                It's red and rusted and filled with old lumber, and it's the perfect place for five troublemakers to come and avoid responsibility. And today, it seems that Alastair has some different plans for them.

                Dean plunks down in his usual spot, leaning back against a stack of wood in the train car, making some room for Crowley beside him so that Alastair doesn't come sit with him. He hates when Al sits with him, because the guy doesn't know the fucking definition of personal space. Dean's skin crawls at every "accidental" touch.

                "We thought you guys weren't coming," Zach says when Dean and Crowley arrive, and it's evident by the cigarette butts littering the floor of the train car that Al, Zach, and Gordon have all been here a while waiting.

                "Apologies gentlemen," Crowley says, pulling his gloves off his hands, "Dean here took his sweet time getting ready this morning. I thought it best to wait for him."

                Dean rolls his eyes. "I had to get my little brother to school. He woke up late. Sue me."

                "Ah, and how is little Sammy?" Alastair asks on a hiss, smiling as he pulls out a plastic baggie from his pocket filled with some sort of white powder.

                "None of your damn business, that's how he is," Dean replies with a glare, eyeing the bag in the Al's hands.  

                Dean will put up with a lot from Alastair, but he will not talk about his brother. In fact, he won't talk about Sam with any of these guys. He'd rather Sam not end up like him, thank you very much.

                Gordon raises his eyebrows. "Touchy," he says, taking one last drag on his cigarette before grinding it out on the floor.

                Dean just shifts and pulls his jacket a little tighter around himself, glaring at the floor.         

                "What the hell is that stuff?" Zach asks, nodding towards the bag of powder in Al's hands. Al grins and holds it up, presenting it to all of them like it's the most amazing thing they've ever seen.

                "This, my friends, is what I like to call _cocaine_ ," he announces, grinning at them.

                They all stare at Al, waiting for him to say something more. When he doesn't, Crowley clears his throat.

                "And, are we, uh, expected to _ingest_ said cocaine on this fine morning?" he asks, shifting a little. Dean eyes the bag skeptically. He's never been that into drugs. But something about it sounds really good right about now.

                "No, I brought it here so we could all stare at it," Al replies dryly, opening the bag and licking his finger, sticking the wet tip into the powder and then rubbing the white substance across his lower gums where one would store chewing tobacco. He smacks his lips a couple times and then hums appreciatively, like he's just tried a delicious piece of chocolate instead of a powerful drug.

                He raises his eyebrows, offering the baggie up. "Any takers?" he asks, "There's plenty to go around."

                Alastair makes it a point to lock eyes with Dean as he asks, challenging him. Dean hates that he can't say no. And what's even worse: he doesn't _want_ to say no, even though it's Al who's offering the cocaine. Because sometimes it's just easier to go along with his friends. And it's easier to pump yourself full of mind-bending chemicals than deal with life. No matter how disgusting it is, he'd rather be here than at school, even if he'd have a chance of spotting Castiel Novak's lovely face once or twice in the halls.

                Gordon reaches out and takes the bag before Dean has a chance to, lifting it up high to inspect the white powder from below. "Aren't you supposed to snort this stuff?" he asks.

                Al shrugs. "You can. Just lay out a line on that board over there. And here," Al says, fishing in his pocket and pulling out a receipt, "Roll this up and use this to snort it. It's easier."

                Gordon takes the paper from him. "You done this stuff before?" he asks.

                Al just grins. "Maybe," he says, "Don't worry about it."

                Gordon eyes him for a moment, and then shakes his head, turning and pouring a small amount of the cocaine onto a cleaner-looking board in the car. He whips out his plastic school ID and uses it to make a neat line of the cocaine, and then he rolls up the receipt and leans down, hesitating briefly before snorting the entire line.

                Dean watches as Gordon twitches a little, sniffing hard and rubbing at his nose, blinking his eyes a few times and pinching his brow. " _Wow_ , that's unpleasant," Gordon grumbles, handing off the rolled up receipt to Dean. Dean takes it instinctively and stares at it for a second.

                "Well?" Crowley says, giving Dean a nudge, "Have at it."

                Dean swallows and glances around briefly before shifting forward and scooting up to the board with the cocaine on it, very deliberately not looking at Al because he doesn't want to see the smug satisfaction on the bastard's face. He copies what Gordon did, fashioning a neat line and leaning down, snorting it all up through the rolled up receipt before he can stop himself.

                It feels like someone punched him in the nose, an entire tightening of his sinus. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, swallowing down the urge to sneeze and handing off the receipt to Crowley.

                The effects of the cocaine hit him much faster than he expects them to.

                As he crawls back to where he'd been sitting in the train car, his fingertips start to tingle like he's just chugged a pot of coffee. The tingling moves up his arms, across his chest, down his legs, and out his toes. His ears are ringing, and he barely notices Zach, Crowley, and Al all taking their hits next to him, because suddenly, he's _flying_.

                It feels simultaneously awful and like the best feeling in the world. He considers that perhaps this is stupid, but then Crowley cracks a funny joke (that's really not that funny at all) and suddenly they're all doubled over and laughing, rolling around on the floor of the train car.

                He has no idea how much time passes, but suddenly he wants to do _everything._ He wants to get his homework done, and clean his house, and get John into rehab, and eat everything in his kitchen, and not eat anything at all, and catch up on all the TV shows he's missed, and do his laundry, and get a dog. He wants to do it all, right now, right here, all at once.

                He wants to run up to Castiel Novak and punch him in his face because he's better than Dean, and everyone knows it, and it sucks. Then he wants to kiss him. But he can't do that. Only right now, he can. Because he can do _anything_.

                The feeling doesn't last though. The effects of the cocaine wear off no more than half an hour later, and all five of them are left slumped on the floor in the train car, breathing heavily from laughing so much at absolutely nothing. Zach's knee is bleeding, and Dean remembers a dizzying moment somewhere in the last thirty minutes where Zach thought he could walk on air and had walked right out of the train car and fallen the five or so feet to the hard rocky ground, busting open his leg.

                Dean looks over at Crowley, who is sweaty and red and smiling. "Not bad," he says to Dean.

                "Doesn't last very long," Dean says, "But I agree. Not bad."

                Al chuckles a little from the other side of the car. They all look over at him where he's holding up the still-full bag of cocaine. "Anybody up for round two?"

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean has had a lot of time to think today. One good thing about drugs is that they shut his friends up. Either that, or it makes it so that Dean doesn't have the ability to listen to whatever useless thing it is they're saying.

                Either way, it gives Dean time to think.

                And he's spent the whole day thinking about Castiel.

                They're not good thoughts. He'd started the day thinking about the boy's eyes, those crystalline blue eyes. It's easy to think about someone's eyes when you're high. It almost makes it better actually.

                But that thought process quickly evolves into something else.

                Dean has a realization.

                Castiel Novak is better than him.

                And that's not really that big of a deal, because _most_ people are better than him.

                But it's the fact that Dean cares what Castiel thinks.

                Castiel hadn't fought back. A couple weeks ago when Dean, Alastair, and Gordon had pushed him into the mud, Castiel hadn't fought back. He hadn't even tried to hit them, or kick them, or yell out for help.

                To be fair, they hadn't exactly beaten the shit out of the guy - they'd just shoved him into the mud. But still, Castiel hadn't fought back once.

                This bothers Dean for some reason. It kind of feels like a slap in the face a little bit. Who doesn't fight back? Is Castiel trying to prove that he's better than them? Like he wouldn't dare stoop to that level? Make himself look bad?

                As the afternoon rolls around and the cocaine wears off, Dean decides something, then and there.

                He's going to hate Castiel Novak. He's going to hate him with everything he has, just like he tells himself he hates that freshman kid Barry, and that depressive girl Krissy, and those two dweebs from the school newspaper he and his friends like to pick on.

                He's going to hate Castiel Novak, because it feels better to hate someone than to envy them, to pine after them.

                Sure, Castiel is gorgeous, and strange, and intriguing, and Dean would give anything just to know more about the guy. But he'd rather hate him and go along with his friends than feel worthless every time he speaks to Castiel.

                And who does Castiel think he is anyway? Acting like he doesn't give a shit when Dean and his friends are picking on him. Most other students cry or hit back when Dean and his friends are messing with them. But not Castiel. And Dean convinces himself that Castiel is just a stuck-up dick who thinks he's better than everyone else, and _that's_ why he doesn't fight back.

                It's mid-afternoon when Zach finally stands to leave Ghost Town, and Dean and his friends follow. They head back to the school since the last classes are about to get out, and when they break free of the trees and begin walking towards The Docks, Dean spots Castiel exiting the school and heading towards the path he takes home through the woods.

                This is his chance.

                He swallows back every doubt he has, every little voice in his head whispering that Castiel is _not_ actually a stuck-up dick, that all the little things Dean is telling himself to make himself feel better about being a bully are lies, and he nudges Crowley with a grin, nodding towards Cas.

                "Look who it is," he says, chuckling a little. His laughter feels like acid in his throat.

                Crowley smiles and points Cas out to the rest of them. "Come on boys," he says, "I believe we have an appointment with Mr. Novak."

                Dean's heart feels heavier and heavier every second they get closer to Castiel, and when Cas finally notices them coming, it's too late. Gordon grabs him first, startling the blue eyed boy, and Dean surprises himself by immediately throwing a punch.

                Maybe he's just trying to get it over with. The first punch is awful, and it solidifies something inside of Dean, confirms something. He hates himself. He hates himself and he's taking it out on Castiel. And so he hates Castiel. That's how it works, right?

                The second punch is easier, and knocks Cas off his feet.

                By the third punch, Dean feels much better.

                This is a familiar feeling. This is something he's used to, the feeling of someone's face against his knuckles. It doesn't matter who it is. And he just has to keep telling himself that.

                There's nothing _special_ about Castiel. He's no _different_ than any of the other students at this school. Dean has been convinced all this time that Castiel is somehow unlike all the other students, which has made it harder for Dean to go along with his friends.

                But Castiel is the same. And Dean _hates_ Castiel, just like he _hates_ everyone. Just like he hates all those other kids he and his friends have decided to torment in addition to Castiel. Just like he hates his friends. Just like he hates himself.

                It's easier just to hate everything. It's easier to live in a world where everything is black and white. And punching Castiel right now is a wakeup call.

                Dean only gets a few punches in before his friends take over. Zach picks Castiel up off the ground where he'd fallen and slams him back against the side of the school. Castiel hits hard, grunting on impact and coughing as the wind is knocked out of him.

                And he just stands there. He doesn't fight back.

                Dean wants Castiel to fight back.

                Instead, a determined yet defeated look crosses Castiel's face. His nose is bleeding from one of Dean's punches, and the sight of the blood satisfies something in Dean. This is familiar.

                The victim not fighting back isn't, however.

                Gordon reaches out and tears a notebook Castiel is carrying out of the boy's hands, throwing it aside on the ground. Castiel looks at it for a moment, and then sniffs, looking back at them, locking eyes with each of them individually, landing last on Dean.

                Dean glares. He tries his hardest to glare. He _hates_ Castiel. He just has to keep telling himself that. And the sooner Castiel gets that through his head, the easier this whole thing will be. And things will carry on as they're supposed to: Dean and his friends beating the crap out of Castiel every few days to remind him of his place as part of the loser community at this high school.

                It's the natural order.

                He watches Castiel swallow, and then the kid lets out a sigh. "Let's just get this over with," he says in that gravelly voice. And it almost looks like he doesn't even care?

                Alastair and Zach exchange a glance, and then they laugh, and someone throws another punch, hitting Castiel in the gut. He keels over in pain, but Gordon catches him, pressing him flat against the wall again and punching him in the jaw.

                Dean is frozen in place. His friends continue to hit Castiel, and he can't even bring himself to move.

                Did Castiel really just invite them to beat the shit out of him?

                What the hell is wrong with this kid?

                He doesn't get long to ponder this though, because a movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. He glances up and sees the security guard Victor rounding the corner. When Victor sees the group of them beating on Castiel, he breaks into a jog. "Hey! What's going on over there!"

                "Shit, come on, let's go!" Gordon says, pulling away from Castiel and dragging Zach with him. Alastair gets in one last good punch right to Cas's diaphragm, jolting a choking cough out of the blue eyed boy. He crumples to the ground.

                Crowley turns and grabs Dean, pulling him away, and the five of them run off towards the woods laughing. Dean is the only one not laughing, not making a sound, just running mechanically.

                Just before disappearing into the woods, his knuckles still throbbing where they connected with Castiel's sharp jaw, he glances back and sees Victor kneeling down over the fallen boy, glancing once in their direction, obviously torn between helping Castiel and chasing down his attackers.

                Dean pauses, hesitates, staring at Castiel. It's only when Dean sees the boy raise his head that he allows himself to continue running again.

                And he spends the rest of his way home pondering why he would stop long enough to make sure Castiel is conscious, when he supposedly hates the guy so much.


	4. Revelations

                "You alright kid?"

                Castiel blinks a few times, clearing his throbbing head, wiping the blood away from his nose with the back of his hand. He lifts his head up, spotting Dean and his friends disappearing into the woods. He sees Dean stop, hesitate, look back at him, and then continue on.

                "Kid?"

                Castiel groans a little in time with the ache in his head, turning his eyes upwards to find a dark-skinned man in an officer's uniform kneeling above him. He blinks a couple times, making out the nametag on the guy's shirt - Victor Henriksen.

                "I'm fine," Castiel says, grunting a little as he wipes his nose one more time and pushes himself up. Victor immediately grabs his arm to help him to his feet, and although it's a nice gesture, it's unnecessary. Castiel has taken worse beatings before. He really is fine. Physically, he's fine.

                "Come on," Henriksen says, "Let's get you to the nurse. She's here late today.”

                Castiel shakes his head with a little sigh. "No, it's alright, I'm okay," he assures the officer (security guard, maybe?), "I should really be going. My sister is waiting for me at home."

                "Wait, hang on now," Victor urges, holding his hands up to stop Castiel as he begins to walk past him, "You sure you're alright? I'd really feel better if you just went and saw the nurse before you go. It'll take ten minutes tops."

                Cas gives the man a tired smile. "I'm really fine Mister-"

                "Call me Victor."

                Castiel nods once. "Victor. I'm alright," he assures him, "This isn't my first run-in with a bunch of jerks, and I'm late picking up my sister from my neighbor's house."

                "These guys mess with you before?" Victor asks, looking down the bridge of his nose at Cas.

                Castiel shrugs, wincing as he feels a scrape he hadn't noticed before tug on the back of his shoulder. Must have happened when they'd slammed him against the wall. "These guys, other guys. There are always going to be guys like this, anywhere you go," he says, "I'd rather not make a big deal out of it."

                Victor huffs a hard sigh, but Castiel is surprised - and grateful - that he sees no pity or sympathy in the man’s eyes. Usually when people find out that Castiel is a walking doormat, they either stomp all over him too or immediately feel bad for him. He hates both. But Victor looks hardened, not remorseful. It's refreshing.

                After a few seconds, Victor nods once, tightly. "Alright kid," he says, "You handle this whatever way you want. I'll respect that."

                Castiel is a little taken aback by the words. Then he smiles a little. "Thank you Victor."

                Victor nods again, stepping aside and allowing Castiel to pass. "Just take care of yourself, you hear?"

                Castiel tips his head in agreement, stooping over to pick up his notebook that one of them had tossed away. It's dirty and a little wet, but otherwise undamaged. He glances back. "Thank you for stopping them," he says, his voice a little smaller.

                The corner of Victor's mouth quirks up. "No problem kid."

                Castiel eyes Victor for a moment. This man is one of the good ones. If Castiel has learned anything through his experiences, it's how to tell the good people from the bad pretty easily. Victor Henriksen is one of the good ones.

                Pinching the bridge of his nose as he feels a little more blood running out of it, Castiel turns and heads for the trees, feeling Victor watching him the whole way, probably making sure Dean and his friends don't pop out of the woods and jump on him again. Castiel is on alert as well, his eyes darting around as he takes the worn path home, looking for movement in the trees.

                But there's no one there, to Castiel's relief, and by the time he gets back to his little blue house, his nose has stopped bleeding and he feels a slight swollen lump under his eye, emblazoning his sharp cheekbone. So he'll have a bruise in a few hours. Great.

                He pops over to Missouri's house next door to pick up Anna. Missouri has taken to keeping Anna at her house every afternoon until Castiel gets home from school so that Anna isn't alone in their empty house. It's comforting to Castiel. He used to worry all the time when Anna was alone at their apartment in the city for hours on end when he couldn't be there. And Anna doesn't seem to mind - if she does, she's not complaining. She does her homework and plays with Missouri's crystal collection and has already learned three words in some ancient dead language that Missouri has somehow mastered for _fun_.

                Castiel wonders if everyone in this town has a not-so-secret personal life as strange as Missouri Moseley's. He hasn't even bothered to ask about the rabbit foot collection she keeps displayed in the living room of her house. They're all hanging from the ceiling by membrane-thin gold chains. Maybe he's too _afraid_ to ask.

                He doesn't even get a chance to knock on the door before Jesse is pulling it open. The kid is sluggish today, he notices, and Castiel nearly has a heart attack when Jesse raises his eyes and grins up at him, because the kid's mouth is full of blood, dripping down his chin in crimson rivers.

                "I think I bit my tongue," Jesse slurs through all the blood, and Castiel's own mouth falls open, a soundless choke leaving his throat.

                He doesn't get long to freak out though, before Jesse bursts out laughing, spitting half the blood out of his mouth in the process. The little boy holds up a small black tube, and Castiel blinks a few times, realizing that it's a tube of fake costume blood. His breath punches out of him in a gasp of relief.

                "Your sense of humor leaves something to be desired," Castiel tells him, pressing a hand to his chest.

                "He's been doing that _all day_ ," Anna complains from behind Jesse.

                Castiel looks up at her and her eyes instantly widen into little round coins. "What happened to your face!" she exclaims, stepping forward and shoving the still-laughing Jesse out of her way, reaching up and prodding at the swelling lump along Castiel's cheekbone.

                Cas flinches. " _Ow_ ," he complains, batting her hand away, "It's nothing. I just fell off my bike in the woods."

                She cocks her head to the side in confusion. "Your bike's been in the yard since I got home."

                Castiel freezes up, his mouth half-open, ready to spew another lie, anything to protect Anna from all this crap. But then her face falls, and she glares a little, but he can tell it isn't a glare that's meant for him. "It's starting again, isn't it?" she says, and she doesn't even try to phrase it like a question. She knows it's true. It's happened too many times before.

                Castiel starts to reply, but his mouth snaps shut when Missouri comes around the corner from the living room, spotting Cas in the doorway.

                "Well hey sugar! Didn't know you were here! Come in!" she greets warmly, her voice that breathy bird-like chime Castiel has grown used to.

                Castiel glances at Anna and she shoots him a _we'll-be-discussing-this-later_ look, to which he returns a _just-drop-it_ glare. She pulls him inside by his thumb, closing the door and pushing Jesse out of the way. The kid is cute, but damn, he needs to shut up sometimes. He goes running off down the hallway into the bathroom to clean up his fake-blood-covered face before his adoptive mother can see it.

                The house smells like nutmeg and candle wax. It's odd, but comforting. It's homier in here than at Castiel and Anna's new house anyway, that's for sure. They'd just finished unpacking the last of the boxes this week. Castiel wonders how long it will be before they're just packing them up again.

                Anna pulls Castiel into the kitchen where Missouri is standing over the stove stirring what looks like a pot of extra-thick hot cocoa. It's not terribly cold outside as far as Vermont autumns go, but it's already October and the chill is starting to settle in. It blankets the town like an icy exhale. The hot cocoa sounds like the best thing in the world right now to Castiel after dealing with several fists to the face from the Cancers.

                Missouri Moseley's kitchen is almost humorous, it's so small. Castiel wonders who lived here before. Everything is just one size too small. He has to duck to get through the doorway, even though he's of average height for a guy his age at just around six feet tall. It's like the kitchen of a dollhouse. Everything is adorned in doilies and lace. There's a pellet stove in the corner that heats up the room like a sauna. The cabinets are a rose-pink that somehow just _works_ with the sunflower yellow walls and the mossy-green floor. Missouri has just about every herb known to man hanging in bunches from the ceiling in all the corners, making it so that one has to duck to avoid hitting their head on them.

                The kitchen is like something you would expect to find if you walked into the home of a gnome living in a tree in the forest. It's like something out of a fairytale.

                Castiel doesn't think he'll ever get tired of this woman.

                Missouri turns around after tapping the wooden spoon off on the edge of the hot cocoa pot. The spoon is stained a deep dark brown from the richness of the chocolate, and Castiel's mouth waters as his skin thaws out. In the warmth of the kitchen, his bruises are beginning to throb, but he ignores them.

                "Oh honey, what happened to you?" Missouri exclaims as she really takes in Castiel's appearance. He glances down, biting his lip, sneaking a warning look at Anna. He doesn't want to drag Missouri into his crap.

                Anna seems to get the hint. "He fell off his bike," she lies for him.

                "Castiel James Novak, are you so careless?" Missouri scolds, tutting to herself and shaking her head.

                Cas and Anna exchange a brief glance as Missouri rounds the tiny island counter covered in bowls of herbs and just about every type of bread anyone could ever ask for. How does all this stuff fit in one tiny kitchen?

                She ducks past a clump of rosemary hanging by a red ribbon and walks right into Castiel's personal space, taking his chin in hand and tilting his head this way and that, examining his bruises and mumbling to herself.

                "You got all this from falling off your bike? Boy, you are all kinds of clumsy," Missouri scolds. Castiel just stands there sheepishly, looking down at the woman. He always forgets that Missouri is shorter than him by at least half a foot. The woman is such a powerful presence, it's easy to disregard the fact that all that sass can exist in such a little body. "Come on," she says, placing a hand on his back and leading him out of the kitchen, "Watch your head. Let's get you cleaned up."

                Castiel ducks under the doorway out of the kitchen and follows Missouri down the hallway. It's one thing to refuse help from Victor the security guard, but Castiel can't say no to Missouri Moseley. And besides, she's the nurse at Anna and Jesse's school, so she must know at least halfway what she's doing.

                She sits Cas down on the lavender porcelain toilet, and as she digs around in her cabinet for a first aid kit, he looks around. The bathroom is just as strange as the rest of the house. Every inch of every wall is covered in individually framed tarot cards. The various pictures stare out at Castiel, and he studies each and every one until Missouri steps into his line of vision and pulls up a little stool with a stack of gray towels on it from beside the lavender bathtub. Everything in here smells like sandalwood.

                Cas watches as Missouri douses a small cloth with a clear liquid. "This may sting a little bit, but you have a little cut above your eyebrow there," she says, before pressing the cloth gently to the wound that Cas didn't even know he had. He winces a little, but she has very steady hands, and she cleans the blood away efficiently and almost painlessly.

                It feels good, someone taking care of him like this. Almost like a mother. He smiles before he can stop himself.

                "What are you grinning about honey?"

                Castiel looks up to find her maple-warm dark eyes studying his blue ones. He shakes his head once. "It's nothing," he dismisses, still unable to stop smiling.

                She sighs a little as she cleans. "Castiel, now I know this isn't all from a bike accident," she says, her voice kind and patient.

                He doesn't say anything, keeping his eyes down.

                She secures a small bandage over the cut and swipes the wet cloth under his nose a couple times, presumably to wipe away whatever blood Cas had missed from the nosebleed.

                When she finishes, she takes his chin gently, avoiding a blooming bruise near the hinge of his jaw, and tilts his head up so he's forced to look at her. "You don't have to tell me where you got all this," she says, looking at him with raised eyebrows, "But just tell me one thing. Are you alright?"

                Castiel is getting a little tired of people asking him that. It's overwhelming. But he swallows and nods once. "Yes, I'm okay. Everything is okay."

                She holds his stare for a long, long moment, so long that Castiel _almost_ looks away. But then she sighs and releases his chin. "Alright sugar," she says, "Then turn around and pull up the sleeve of that shirt. You're bleeding on your shoulder too."

                Castiel does what he's told, hesitating when he spots Anna in the doorway of the bathroom watching them. He locks eyes with her and gives her a small smile and a nod, hoping it's reassuring. This hadn't been that bad. He's dealt with so much worse in the past. Just because the Cancers felt the need to put him in his place this one time doesn't mean that there's going to be a problem here like there have been problems in the past.

                He tries to convey that reassurance in his smile to Anna. She doesn't seem to buy it.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean has a headache by the time he makes it home that afternoon. He has an adrenaline buzz simply from getting to beat someone up today, because he admittedly has always enjoyed that feeling of power. But the headache is there to remind him that he is torn about the fact that the person he got to beat up was Castiel Novak.

                He's worked himself up into a pretty foul mood by the time he gets home. He's not sure whether he should be pissed that Castiel doesn't seem interested in fighting back, or if he should admire the fact that the kid seems so brave that he doesn't even appear to care that he's getting beaten up in the first place. It makes Dean feel inferior. So he settles on just deciding to be pissed.

                When he walks into his house, he's surprised to find John in the kitchen with Sammy. Sam is sitting at the table reading a textbook that should be too thick for a twelve year old, marking the relevant information with little sticky note tabs. Their father is standing at the stove stirring a pan of boxed macaroni and cheese with one hand, holding a beer in the other. It's only four in the afternoon, a little too early for dinner, but who is Dean is object when John is the one actually cooking this time?

                When Dean steps into the kitchen, linoleum crackling underfoot, Sam looks up, and his eyes are wide. He gives Dean a warning look and shakes his head, and Dean's brow furrows as he looks from Sammy to their dad. He clears his throat, hearing some sniffling, and he realizes that John is crying, his back to his sons.

                _Great_ , Dean thinks. He hates when John cries. _Hates_ it. It's just another thing he can add to the list of things he hates today. But he's already inadvertently announced his presence by clearing his throat, so he can't just leave without saying anything.

                He glances at Sam once more, and Sam looks so wildly uncomfortable the pinched expression on his face is actually hilarious. Dean rolls his eyes. "Hey dad," he greets, inching forward a bit towards the fridge, half-tempted to go for a beer himself. One good thing about John when he gets into sad moods like this is that he doesn't actually care what Sam and Dean do - ergo, Dean can get away with drinking.

                "Dean," John replies in greeting, his voice cracking on just that one syllable.

                Yeah, Dean's going to need a beer. He clenches and unclenches his fist a couple times on his way to the fridge, willing away the remaining soreness from punching Castiel's face. God, but that kid has a really sharp jaw. He grabs a beer and glances briefly at John to see if he cares before cracking the thing open and tossing the bottle cap into the sink.

                He doesn't bother to say anything else to John for now. When John gets sad, it's best not to engage him. Just like when John gets angry. Just like when John gets happy. It's best not to engage him when he's happy, for fear of ruining his good mood.

                Basically, it's best just not to engage John Winchester in any conversation ever, at all.

                Dean sinks down in the chair at the kitchen table next to Sam's, peering over his shoulder at what Sam's reading. A paragraph on the American Revolution catches Dean's eye and he sits there reading a summary of the battle of Lexington and Concord for a few minutes in mild interest before John clears his throat, dropping the spoon he was using to stir the macaroni and cheese in the sink and turning off the stove.

                Dean and Sam both look up as he begins to dump the food into three separate bowls. _Wow_ , Dean thinks, _we're actually going to eat together tonight._   

                "You boys know what day it is?" John asks, his voice rough with emotion, although it seems he's getting his tears under control.

                Dean knows this has something to do with their mother, because John never cries about anything but that. But what could it be? His mother's birthday is in December...she died in November. They got married in February. But what happened in October?

                He glances at Sam, asking the question with his eyes, but Sam just shrugs and shakes his head once in the same confusion. Sam's eyes hone in on Dean's nose and his brow furrows. He points to his own nose, signaling to Dean that he has something on his face. Dean reaches up and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and when he looks down, there's white powder on his bruised knuckles. Cocaine.

                He grits his teeth guiltily, and pretends he doesn't see Sam's suspicious look out of the corner of his eye as Dean glances back up at John, inconspicuously wiping the remnants of Alastair's cocaine on his jeans. Their father turns around, carrying two of the bowls of macaroni and cheese over to the table, and _god_ his face is a mess, wrecked with tears and snot, unshaven. But there's a lucid look in his eyes that tells Dean he's at least half-sober, which is better than normal, so he feels a little more at ease.

                John sets the bowls one in front of each son and goes back for his own. "Well?" he asks Sam and Dean.

                They both swallow. "No sir," they reply finally to his question, perfectly in sync.

                John returns to the table with his own food and dumps a couple forks in front of the boys. Dean sucks down a small swallow of beer before grabbing a fork and digging into his food. The faster he eats, the faster he can leave the kitchen and hide in his room.

                "On this day, nineteen years ago, I proposed to Mary," John says, nodding with a sad smile.

                Dean chews his food thoughtfully, unsure what to say, so he says nothing. As much as he loves his mom, will _always_ love his mom, he hates talks like this. He can't wait until it's over.

                "Happy anniversary," Sam says quietly, and Dean can tell the kid is unsure what to say too.

                John looks at both of them, but they keep their eyes down and continue eating.

                When their father starts to sniffle a little again, Dean glances up, and John is looking down at his untouched food. A few tears start to run down his face again, and Dean looks away, feeling guilty as hell and like a bad son. What is he supposed to do? Sam seems to be struggling with the same conundrum next to him, and it takes both brothers less than a minute to finish shoveling their food into their mouths.

                They both stand, carrying their bowls over to the sink. Sam grabs his books and heads to his room. Just before Dean leaves the kitchen, plucking his beer off the table, he hesitates next to John, and then places one hand on his shoulder reassuringly, patting him just a couple times like John is some frightened animal in need of comfort. His father doesn't acknowledge him, so Dean just sighs and goes to his room, leaving John crying there over his uneaten food.

                It happened when Dean was seven and Sammy was almost one. The Accident. Dean always refers to it as just The Accident, because he'd rather not call it The Day Mary Winchester Burned To A Crisp.

                The coroner and all the investigators had assured Dean and his family that Mary had actually died on impact, instant, painless. Their car had veered off the road when Mary had spilled her coffee while driving. It was just Mary, Dean, and Sammy in the car at the time, and Dean remembers it so clearly, it's like it happened hours ago.

                He remembers the sound of the glass shattering, the _pop_ as something in the engine was punctured, the strange sickening crunch of his mother's head hitting the steering wheel. In hindsight, Dean can understand why the coroner and the investigators all figured Mary was dead on impact. She wasn't moving when the car caught on fire, even when seven-year-old little Dean wriggled his way out of the mess of metal in the back seat and shook her a few times. Maybe she hadn't been dead, maybe she had. But at least she was unconscious when she burned.

                Dean, however, was fully conscious when he caught on fire.

                His leg was trapped between the passenger seat and his own spot where the metal of the car had folded it’s way forward, compacting the whole vehicle. Sammy was crying in his car seat, but Dean hadn't even made a sound. Not one sound. He was on fire and he didn't even cry.

                It was a miracle that he'd managed to jerk his leg free, breaking his ankle in the process, tearing Sammy out of his car seat and dragging him out of the smoking machine, but not before he could smell the aroma of his mother's hairspray burning, and could feel the skin bubbling off his side where the fire was eating through him.

                Eleven years later, and Dean can still smell burning hairspray whenever he closes his eyes.

                He pauses in the hallway outside Sam's room, contemplating going in there and hanging out with his brother tonight. But he doesn't want to have to explain why he'd walked into the house with white powder on his nose today, so he swallows guiltily and wanders further down the hall to his own room, collapsing on his bed - which is actually just a mattress on the floor with an old, old set of Batman sheets – and stares at the ceiling.

                His ceiling doesn’t have cool glow-in-the-dark stars and planets on it like Sam’s, but he does have a _Return of the Jedi_ movie poster that he won at an arcade once tacked up there, so he settles back and stares at that. He studies Princess Leia in her bikini top, and Han Solo pointing his weapon down at him, and Dean moves his hand up his shirt and trails his fingers over the shiny off-white burn scars littering the left side of his torso all the way up to his ribs, and all the way down to his thigh. And he tries not to think.

 

*       *       *

 

                It’s late that night when Castiel hears someone knocking on the door of his house. He and Anna are huddled together on the couch watching some TV show about ocelots, trying to keep warm since the heater in their house hasn’t bothered to work since they’ve moved in. They’re busy eating bowls of the casserole Missouri had sent them home with tonight. This one has no quail eggs, but Castiel is suspicious of the green strings that look very much like seaweed. It’s delicious though, so who is he to complain?

                He glances at Anna when he hears the knocking, and then looks back at the front hallway when the knocking continues, pounding out the rhythm to the waltz. There’s someone singing on the other side of the front door. Castiel stands, checking the time as he walks to the door. It’s just around eight-o-clock and tomorrow is a school day.

                Gabriel, Charlie, and a boy Castiel doesn’t know are standing on his front porch when he opens the door, grinning and hugging themselves against the cold. The boy Castiel doesn’t know is holding a paper grocery bag.

                “Guys?” Cas greets with confusion, “What are you doing here?”

                “Good to see you too kiddo,” Gabriel drawls, sliding past Castiel into the house. Cas steps aside to allow Charlie and the new boy to enter, and he closes the door against the cold. It isn’t that much warmer inside.

                “Jeez, it’s freezing in here!” Charlie complains.

                “Heater’s broken,” Castiel apologizes.

                “Maybe I can fix it?” the new boy says, giving a little wave as he sets the grocery bag down on the front table.

                “Cas, this is Kevin. I don’t think you guys have met yet,” Gabriel says, gesturing to the new guy. Kevin gives a small sheepish smile and extends his hand in greeting. Castiel shakes it.

                “Nice to meet you Kevin,” he greets.

                “Whoa Cas, what happened to your face?” Charlie asks, stepping forward and eyeing him from up close, although thankfully she doesn’t prod at his face like everyone else has been.

                “Oh, uh, I had a little run in with the Cancers,” he replies.

                “The who?” Gabe asks, coming forward.

                Castiel glances towards the living room briefly where Anna is still studiously learning about ocelots. “Dean Winchester and his friends.”

                “You nicknamed them the Cancers?” Kevin chuckles a little.

                Castiel nods.

                “Hm,” Charlie ponders, “That’s actually very fitting.”

                Castiel smiles a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “What are you guys doing here?” he asks, “Not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just…I don’t know, I would have cleaned up or something.”

                Gabriel looks around and snorts a little. “If it got any cleaner in here, it’d be a mental institution.”

                Cas blushes and bites his lip. “Well how’d you guys even know where I live?”

                Charlie shrugs. “The only house that’s been up for sale and gone off the market recently is this old one on Coolidge, so we just assumed.”

                “ _And_ we figured since your parents aren’t home, we’d come crash the joint,” Gabe grins.

                Castiel chuckles a little. “That’s very innovative of you.”

                “We brought food,” Kevin says, picking up the grocery bag again, “But it kind of smells like you already ate.”

                “Oh, that’s okay, we can eat again,” Castiel says, and then calls out, “Anna, are you still hungry?”

                “Always!” she shouts back.

                Gabriel chortles. “My kind of lady.” He wanders towards the living room.

                “Gabe, she’s eleven,” Castiel warns, “No hitting on her.”

                Gabriel has the audacity to look offended. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

                “Don’t answer that,” Charlie says, taking Castiel’s sleeve and pulling him towards the kitchen in the next room. Kevin follows with the grocery bag.

                Gabe rolls his eyes and continues into the living room, plunking down next to Anna and striking up a conversation.

                “He loves kids,” Charlie says, “He’s got a lot of little brothers, so he’s used to them.”

                Castiel nods in understanding.

                “So, Castiel,” Kevin says, “You want me to fix the heat or not?”

                “How do you know how to do that?” he asks.

                “Oh, Kevin knows everything,” Charlie provides, “It’s a fact.”

                Kevin rolls his eyes sheepishly. “I’ll still never be as good as you at computers.”

                Charlie grins. “Shall we have another hack-off tomorrow?”

                Castiel looks between them. “A ‘hack-off’?”

                “Charlie and I race to see who can hack into different things faster,” Kevin explains, “Usually it’s into the school’s confidential files, but this one time we got into the private email of the mayor of Rail Pass.”

                They both grin proudly.

                Castiel can’t help but smile, even as his jaw drops. “ _Wow_ , that’s very impressive.”

                Charlie shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Just a hobby.”

                Kevin sets the paper bag down. “So where’s the heater? And do you have some tools?”

                Castiel nods and gestures towards the back of the house, showing Kevin the heater and A/C unit near the laundry room. The kid sets to work with determination and Cas wanders back to the kitchen, where Gabriel has joined Charlie. They’ve unloaded the groceries, and it’s all just candy and cookies and junk food. They’re busy getting out bowls and cups and filling them with cheese puffs and mini chocolate chip cookies and making a bouquet of Twizzlers in a vase.

                Cas laughs a little when he sees the display. “Dinner, huh?”

                Gabe grins around a lollipop. “It’s as good a dinner as any.”

                Castiel pulls a chair up to the island counter and sits down, reaching out and grabbing a Twizzler.

                “So Cas…” Charlie begins, and he looks up, chewing on the end of the licorice.

                “Yeah?”

                “What the hell happened today?” Gabe says before Charlie can, “With the _Cancers_?” He air-quotes when he says _Cancers_.

                Castiel pulls the licorice out of his mouth, licking his chapped lips. “I actually tried that thing you told me to do a couple weeks ago,” he smiles a little, “You know, the thing where I act like I don’t care when they’re messing with me?”

                Gabriel’s smile explodes across his face. “Oh yeah? How’d they take it?”

                “Well…” Castiel hesitates, fiddling with the Twizzler, “They beat me up anyway. _But_ , I felt better about it.”

                Gabriel chuckles. “Hey, that’s something right? You think they’ll mess with you again?”

                Castiel looks down at his hands, shrugging. “I’m not sure.” Dean’s angry, gorgeous face flashes through his mind but he brushes the thought off.

                “I think they’ll eventually leave you alone,” Charlie says reassuringly, “I mean, that’s all these kinds of guys are looking for, is a reaction. So if you don’t react when they bug you, they might stop.”

                “You think?” Castiel asks, looking up at them with a pinched brow.

                “Absolutely,” Gabe nods with a smile, “I’m proud of you kiddo. Must’ve sucked though.”

                Castiel shrugs again. “It wasn’t so bad. It’s happened before.”

                “What, here?” Charlie asks.

                “No, at other schools I’ve been to,” Cas replies.

                Gabe and Charlie both study him with unreadable expressions, but before Castiel can ask what they’re looking at, there’s a sudden clunking sound in the walls, like a car screeching to a halt and crashing into a pile of bricks. Then, the vent above the kitchen doorway spews a cloud of dust as it kicks on.

                “Yes! I did it!” Kevin exclaims from down the wall, and comes skipping into the kitchen covered in more dust, “You should get someone to come clean your air ducts though.”

                Anna cheers from the living room, running in and throwing her arms around Kevin’s waist, startling the boy. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she exclaims, “Do you realize how uncomfortable it is to sleep in a winter coat?”

                Kevin chuckles sheepishly. “You’re welcome.”

                “Told you he knows everything,” Charlie says, popping a Dorito into her mouth.

                “You learn a lot about ocelots in there?” Gabe asks Anna, tossing a lollipop at her. She catches in with a clap.

                “Well, they’re nocturnal…and they’re endangered by illegal hunting,” Anna says.

                Kevin smiles, brushing the dust off himself. “You should hear the sound they make when they’re ready to mate. It’s hilarious.”

                Gabe laughs and Charlie shakes her head. “You know everything.”

                Anna looks up at Kevin. “Do you really know everything?”

                Kevin rolls his eyes. “Not everything,” he replies, walking over to the counter and grabbing a mini muffin out of one of the bowls.

                “You speak like thirteen languages bro,” Gabe argues around his lollipop, his words slurred, “You know everything.”

                “Twelve,” Kevin argues.

                “You’re not helping your case here,” Charlie laughs.

                Anna unwraps the lollipop Gabriel tossed at her. “Do you know about Nathan Hautley?”

                “The guy that founded Rail Pass?” Charlie asks.

                Castiel cocks his head to the side. “I thought you said you weren’t obsessed with him,” he accuses Anna teasingly.

                “I’m not!” she claims, “People at school have just been talking about him.”

                Kevin shrugs. “I know a few things about him.”

                “But it’s Elsa Hautley the kids at your school are probably talking about,” Gabe chimes in.

                “Who?” Cas asks.

                “Nathan Hautley’s wife,” Charlie replies.

                _Oh_. Castiel had read about her when he’d researched the town before moving here, but the articles had never mentioned her name.

                “What about her?” Anna asks, popping the lollipop in her mouth and plunking down on the floor.

                Gabe grins. “Can I tell it?” He glances between Kevin and Charlie.

                Charlie rolls her eyes. “Just as long as you leave out the dramatics.”

                Gabriel grumbles a bit, but circles around the counter, plopping down in front of Anna, keeping Castiel in his line of vision since he’s technically talking to him too. “Well,” Gabriel begins, pausing for dramatic effect and earning a scoff from Kevin, “The story goes that Nathan Hautley was a dirty, dirty boy and cheated on Elsa a bunch during their marriage after they’d been living in Rail Pass for a while.”

                Anna’s eyes widen. “That’s fucked up!” she exclaims.

                “Language,” Castiel warns her. She grins up at him.

                “Yeah, it totally is,” Gabe agrees, “But the best part is that Elsa caught him in the act one day with this hot chick from down the street.”

                “When did this happen?” Castiel asks.

                “Oh God, like a hundred years ago or something,” Charlie says, “Men were dirt bags back then too.”

                Gabe shoots her a glare. “You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re a lesbian.”

                Kevin kicks Gabe where he sits. “Keep telling the story.”

                “Oh, right,” Gabriel says, turning back to Anna, “So she catches Hautley in the act, right? And she’s really torn up about it and all that, but Hautley apologizes and begs her to forgive him, and eventually, she does. She gives him a second chance to make it right.”

                Anna’s face falls a little. “Is that it? That’s the story?”

                “No, no, it gets better,” Gabe says, waving his hands, “So they’re unhappily married for a while or whatever, and then Elsa gets pregnant. She’s happy about it, because by this time she’s in her late thirties and she thought she wasn’t gonna have kids. But then Nathan cheats on her again.”

                Anna groans in frustration. “Why!” she exclaims, “Why do guys cheat?”

                “Hey, girls cheat too you know,” Kevin pipes up, “My ex Channing cheated on me with a college guy.”

                Charlie coos and rubs his back. “She was totally snotty anyway, to be fair. You deserve better.”

                “I’m becoming a lesbian,” Anna declares, “Charlie, will you teach me?”

                Castiel laughs a little. “You can’t just _learn_ to be gay Anna.”

                “I can if I try hard enough,” Anna snorts.

                “Hey! I’m telling a story here!” Gabe announces, holding up his hands. They all fall quiet again, Charlie winking at Anna and Anna snickering.

                “So anyway,” Gabriel continues, “She’s pregnant and Nathan’s a douche, right? So Elsa is all sad and she goes out into the woods and strings herself up like a piñata. The end.”

                Anna stares at him for a long moment, eyes wide.  

                “She hung herself?” Castiel asks, leaning forward.

                Gabe nods. “Nathan Hautley found her like that, and buried her in a plot in the woods. Then he skipped town.”

                Castiel purses his lips. He remembers this part of the story. The articles had said that Nathan Hautley left Rail Pass in a time of great sadness, but hadn’t specified as to why.

                “But he came back a few years later and built that park down the street,” Kevin chimes in.

                “You mean Hautley’s Bend?” Anna asks, “We go there sometimes.”

                “Yeah,” Kevin says, “He built it in Elsa’s name since she was pregnant when she killed herself. I guess maybe he built it for his unborn child.”

                Charlie scoffs. “He built it in _his_ name, the selfish dick. If he’d built it for Elsa, he would’ve called it her maiden name or something.”

                “Nah, I think he named it Hautley’s Bend because that’s what his kid’s last name would have been had Elsa given birth to it,” Kevin says, “But either way, Hautley’s Bend is kind of a stupid name.”

                Gabe looks back at Anna. “So there you have it. Elsa Hautley,” he grins.

                Anna bites her lip, studying Gabriel’s face. “So that’s a true story?”

                “’Fraid so kiddo,” Gabe says, and then he pushes himself to his feet, grabbing a handful of cheese puffs, “Come on, let’s go watch that ocelot thing. You’re gonna hear the Hautley story dozens of times once you’ve lived here for a while anyway.”

                “The ocelot show is over,” Anna tells him, trailing behind Gabe to the living room, “And we’re probably not gonna be in Rail Pass that long.”

                Castiel watches after them and then sighs, turning in his chair and popping a sour cherry ball in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

                “Is that true?” Kevin asks, “Are you guys leaving Rail Pass soon?”

                Castiel glances up at him. “It depends on what our parents decide. We move around a lot.”

                “Where are they?” Kevin asks.

                Cas just huffs a little breath. “Working,” he replies, “Always working.”

                They’re all quiet for a minute, and from the living room Castiel can hear the theme song for the Magic School Bus start playing, mixed with the sound of Gabriel’s voice talking animatedly to Anna.

                “Well, it probably doesn’t mean much,” Charlie says, tossing another Twizzler at Castiel, “But I hope you stay for a while. I like you.”

                Castiel smiles as he catches the Twizzler. “It means a lot actually,” he says, itching the small bandage Missouri had stuck to his forehead earlier, “And I like you guys too.” 


	5. Fuel and Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little late here, but I apologize if there are any typos so far in the story. I try to proofread as much as I can, but I'm only human, so sometimes I miss a few :P   
> Also, in the story, Sam is 6-ish years younger than Dean, not 4 like in the show. Just to clarify.   
> Happy late Christmas! :)

_The dream begins as it always does. It's dark and cold, and Castiel is sad again, so sad he can feel it in his chest like dry ice burning and aching, dissolving his heart, shattering his ribs. It hurts, a sadness this deep._

_There's regret too, he realizes - a deep, deep regret that makes him consider the possibility that maybe he doesn't deserve to live, even if his life is this sad, cold, lonely existence that he can feel weathering away at his bones._

_He's walking this time, walking through the woods behind his house, but this is the past, and he's a different person again. The same different person as before. The forest is dark, but somehow he can see, like a creature of the night, which makes no sense, because his body and eyes are older in this dream, and worn. But who is he to question what is true and impossible in a dream?_

_He doesn't know where he's going as he walks through the woods of Rail Pass, but he eventually arrives there anyway. And somehow, like everything else so far, he just_ knows _. He knows he has to look up, even though he doesn't want to._

_But he does. Because this is a dream. And your head makes you do stupid things when you're dreaming. What's a little more regret?_

_He raises his eyes, and a dozen or so feet above him, he sees a pair of feet. They're small - a woman's feet - and they're dirty like she's been walking barefoot through the trees for some time. They're just...hanging there, swinging back and forth in a slight breeze through the woods. Whatever branch they're hanging from creaks and groans under their weight as they swing._

_His dream self knows those feet, deep down, and he feels sad, but he also feels scared, because those feet are most assuredly attached to a whole person above him, and that thought is just creepy. It's too dark to see the rest of the person, but he sees those feet. They're tinged blue - lifeless._

_A dead woman's feet. Hanging in a tree._

_Castiel jolts awake, his hair matted to his face with a cold sweat. His room is too dark and he panics, reaching over and slapping on his light, looking up to make sure there aren't feet hanging above him. He sees nothing but the ceiling, and he releases his breath in a whoosh, collapsing back onto his bed._

_He tries to slow his heartbeat, tries to get back to sleep, but all he can focus on is trying to ignore the lingering sound of a tree branch groaning and creaking under the weight of hanging feet._

*       *       *

 

                A little over a week later, towards the middle of October, Castiel has his first meeting with the after school theatre company. He'd managed to coerce Missouri into signing off for him on the theatre signup sheet as his parental guardian so he could get in. She'd assured him she doesn't mind watching Anna for an extra couple of hours on days when Castiel has theatre practice after school.

                The theatre itself is huge at the school. All Castiel has seen so far before is the green room and costume storage closet, the day Gabriel brought him back here to change out of his muddy clothes. But the actual auditorium easily seats almost a thousand, which is impressive for a small town high school.

                The theatre company meets on the stage, and as Castiel looks around, he notes that there are about thirty students in the club, including Charlie and Gabe, who are sitting with Cas now. Somehow all the members just automatically sit in a circle on the stage, and the theatre teacher arrives fashionably late.

                "Awesome, awesome," she says by way of greeting, "I'm seeing some new faces in here!"

                Charlie grabs Castiel's arm and throws it up in the air before he can stop her. He blushes when the teacher looks over.

                "What's your name sunshine?" the teacher asks Castiel, a big wicked grin on her face, adorned in shiny lip gloss.

                He pulls his arm away from Charlie as she snickers to herself. "Castiel," he replies, elbowing Charlie in the ribs.

                "Welcome, Castiel," the teacher says, "Anyone else new here?"

                A few other students new to theatre raise their hands and introduce themselves. A girl who introduces herself as Dorothy catches Charlie's eye, and she makes a little _yummy_ sound under her breath, exchanging a look with Gabriel that says _I'm all over that_. Castiel just smiles a little and scans his eyes over the circle of students.

                Charlie wasn't lying when she said there are lots of cute boys in theatre. Castiel can see three right now that are like models alone. But none of them have the same timeless, ancient beauty of Dean Winchester. And that's so fucked up that Castiel is even thinking that, because the bruises Dean gave him last week are still healing a sickly yellow color on his face - yet Castiel still thinks that Dean is the most gorgeous boy he's ever seen and pines after him like a pathetic desperate idiot.

                The teacher claps her hands together once, eyeing everyone happily. She has a certain sassiness about her, Castiel can already tell. The woman is definitely not dressed like a teacher. She's wearing tight black jeans, a black bejeweled tank top, and biker boots with clunky bits of metal and leather tassels on them. Her hair is dark and curled, and her eyes are a piercing green that sparkle like firecrackers when she speaks. Some of the boys blush when she looks right at them.

                "For those of you who don't know me, my name is Ms. Barnes, but call me Pamela or Pam. I hate sounding old," the teachers says.

                Gabe raises his hand, but doesn't wait for Pamela to call on him before he speaks. "Pam, do you know what we're doing for the winter play?"

                Pamela smiles. "Actually, yes, if everyone gives it the go ahead," she replies, "Our janitor Marv wrote a play about how crappy high school is, which you guys have to vote on. And I still need to get Roman's permission, but I think he'll be fine with us doing it. He doesn't really care what the theatre club does."

                "What does Marv know about high school?" Gabe scoffs.

                Pamela chuckles. "Believe it or not, he was once in high school too. He gets it. I gave his play a read - it's actually not bad. He's a weird guy, but it's not bad writing."

                Everyone nods a little, and Gabe settles back with a grin. Castiel can tell he's only really talking right now because he wants to flirt with Pamela. She's a pretty lady, and Gabe is shameless.

                "Plus, it's either Marv's play, or we do _Les Misérables_ again," Pam adds, "We didn't get much funding this year so we can't afford new costumes or any complicated sets."

                A girl across the room groans. "We've done _Les Misérables_ twice already."

                "Hence why I wanna give Marv's play a shot," Pam smiles. Then she claps her hands together again. "Alright, everyone up, let's do some exercises."

                Castiel glances at Charlie questioningly as they stand. "Exercises?"

                "Pamela likes to do yoga and stuff before each rehearsal. Don't ask me why," Charlie replies, her eyes glued to the girl Dorothy across the circle.

                Castiel follows her line of vision. "You should go stand with her," he chuckles teasingly. Charlie snaps out of it for a second, looking at Cas, and then grinning sheepishly. He gives her a small nudge. "Go on."

                She glances around. "See any guys you think are cute?" she asks with a waggle of her eyebrows.

                He smiles. "A few," he replies.

                She studies him for a second, and he nudges her again, nodding his head towards Dorothy. Smiling once more, Charlie heads across the circle and squeezes her way in beside Dorothy. Castiel watches her introduce herself, flawlessly smooth, and Gabe bumps into him. "She's like the player of all players," he says to Castiel with a laugh.

                "Alright, follow my lead now," Pam says, stretching her arms above her head, "Reach for the sky...breathe...and touch your toes...one more time, reach up..."

                Castiel follows along with the stretches, wincing a little as the bruised scrape on the back of his shoulder tightens with each pull. But he feels surprisingly better once he loosens his limbs, and he has to stifle little laughs every time Gabe imitates something Charlie does in her flirting efforts. She glances over here at one point, sees Gabe making fun of her, and flips him the bird. Gabe snickers and continues stretching, eyeing Pamela's ass as she bends down in her tight black jeans.

                The theatre practice lasts a couple hours, and Pamela takes them through improv exercises, as well as introductions. Castiel is paired up with a nice girl named Jo, to Gabe's dismay (he had his eye on her rack), and finds out that she's the daughter of Bobby Singer, Castiel's boss, with whom Castiel has already shared four work days so far. The craft shop is nice. It's quiet, secluded, and musty like an old library, which is comforting to Castiel. He sits there at the front desk for three or four hours and makes origami and does homework and helps customers and cleans the store. It's an easy job, and Bobby is one of those quiet men whose silence is the furthest thing from uncomfortable. Castiel will sometimes hear him chattering on the phone in Japanese in the back, and then the next minute he'll be arguing in a southern drawl with a man named Rufus who designs some of the clocks they sell in the shop.

                Bobby Singer is strange, just like Missouri is strange. But also like Missouri, he's a comforting presence to be around, warm like whiskey and sharp like wood shavings.

                Jo, Castiel realizes, is much like her father. While she has a bubbly nature that's unlike Bobby Singer, she also has this intuitive nature about her and the mouth of a sailor, and Castiel can tell she could kick the ass of just about anyone she wanted. Cas envies that about her. He's sure he himself could probably win his fair share of fights if he wanted to - he's not a weak or small guy. But he doesn't fight, it feels wrong.

                Pamela ends up leading them through a particular improv exercise where they all choose something to act out from a hat, kind of like charades, and whoever acts it out the best gets to take home Marv's play to review it first. Nobody ends up winning though, because halfway through the exercise, the entire group of students, Pamela included, are in a puddle on the floor, laughing with tears streaming down their faces at some of the ridiculous things they're being forced to act out. Even Castiel is doubled over hugging his bruised ribs, his jaw aching from smiling so much, throat sore from laughing.

                When the theatre club finally calls it a day, Pamela hands out silly temporary tattoos to everyone and tells them that auditions for the winter play will be held in early November.

                "Are you gonna try out?" Jo asks, bumping into Castiel's shoulder companionably as they head out the door.

                Castiel shrugs, not entirely sure he'll still even be living here by the time November rolls around. "Maybe," he replies, glancing back, looking for Charlie and Gabe. Gabriel is jogging to catch up to him, and when Castiel looks further, he sees Charlie talking with Dorothy. Dorothy is blushing but trying to hide it by keeping a neutral face. Gabe reaches Castiel and Jo and looks back at Charlie too.

                "I swear, I don't know how that girl does it," Gabriel grumbles, "If I want a girl to notice me, I have to spill something on her."

                "Perhaps that's why they don't talk to you," Castiel points out with a wry smile.

                Gabe purses his lips. "Nah," he disagrees after a second of pondering, "Chicks dig it when guys spill stuff on them. It's romantic. I think it's my height that turns them off."

                "Spill anything on me and I'll dislocate your knee," Jo says sweetly, giving a sugary smile and turning, her blonde hair bouncing as she walks away. "See ya later Castiel!" she calls back over her shoulder before turning the corner and disappearing.

                Gabriel whistles high to low. "Maybe I'll have better luck in college," he muses.

                Castiel chuckles and glances back at Charlie once more. She's still deep in conversation with Dorothy, and they watch as Charlie takes Dorothy's arm smoothly, leading her away back into the school. Gabriel shakes his head. "Girl's got mad game," he mutters, "Let's get outta here."

                Castiel shifts his backpack higher on his shoulder and turns, walking with Gabriel out of the theatre. The rear doors of the theatre lead outside to the back of the school, conveniently right towards the woods, and when Gabe and Cas push through, cold air hits them like a slap in the face.

                "No one ever told me it was this cold on the East Coast," Castiel says, hugging himself, "I would have bought a jacket or something."

                "You've never lived on the East Coast before?" Gabe asks, tucking his hands into his armpits.

                Castiel shakes his head. "Not for a long time anyway," he replies, "I lived in Maine for about three months when I was five, so I don't really remember."

                They begin to walk towards the woods together. "How many places have you lived?" Gabe asks with a raised eyebrow.

                Castiel huffs a little laugh. "You really wanna know?"

                "Do you know the exact number?"

                Castiel nods. "I have this scrapbook of sorts that I keep. Each page has a picture of every house I've ever lived in, with the name of the city and the dates I lived there."

                "So you've kept count," Gabriel surmises.

                Castiel looks at him with a little smile. "Yes."

                "So?" Gabe asks, "How many then? What, ten? Fifteen?"

                Castiel chuckles a little, looking down at the ground. He smells cigarette smoke in the air from The Docks as they head towards the forest. "I've lived in twenty-seven different places. Rail Pass is the twenty-eighth."

                Gabriel's eyes bug out of his head. "What!" he sputters, "How is that even possible!"

                Cas shrugs. "My parents like change, I guess."

                "I mean, wow bro, that's _actually_ insane," Gabe breathes, running a hand through his hair.

                A loud laugh from the distance across the parking lot has them both glancing up. The Cancers are sitting with their cigarettes and flasks at The Docks, chattering amongst themselves. Dean's back is to Castiel and Gabe, and Alastair is sitting next to him, pressed from hip to shoulder. Cas watches as Dean subtly scoots a few inches away while Al is distracted taking a swig from Crowley's flask.

                Gabe chuckles a little. "Man that Al kid is a creep," he snorts, "Look how close he's sitting to Winchester. Like, get over it, the guy doesn't want you dude."

                Cas's eyebrows press together. "What do you mean?"  he asks.

                Gabe waves his hand a little, dismissively. "Alastair is just always hanging all over Dean. It's downright stalker-ish if you ask me."

                Castiel hums a bit, looking over at the Cancers again.

                Gabe elbows him in the side. "Come on, let's get out of here before they see you. I'd rather not spend my afternoon cleaning up your face."

                Cas snorts and shakes his head, shoving Gabe towards the forest. Gabe laughs and saunters ahead, and when Castiel glances back at The Docks one last time before disappearing into the trees, Dean has stood up and stepped away from Alastair finally, only to have turned around, and is now looking right at Cas.

                Castiel holds his stare for a moment, and then swallows hard and slips into the trees out of sight.

 

*       *       *

 

                "Gabriel told me our house is haunted," Anna says, sauntering into the living room the next afternoon and plopping down on the floor in front of where Castiel is sitting on the couch, trying to fold an intricate origami rose.

Cas raises his eyebrow. "Did he?"

                "Yeah," she replies, "By that lady Elsa that died in the woods."

                Castiel rolls his eyes. "You know you can't believe a word Gabe says right? He's just trying to scare you."

                "But Jesse said the same thing at school," Anna protests, "I mean, I know he's eight, but he's been living here longer so he probably knows, right?"

                Castiel sighs and sets his origami rose to the side, giving up after the third paper cut. "Okay, so maybe Elsa Hautley died in the woods. Why would she haunt _our_ house? Why not just stick to the woods?"

                "Well maybe she gets cold," Anna says, picking at her socked toes, "I mean it's October in Vermont."

                Castiel snorts a little. "And you think she'd come _here_ to get warm? The heat keeps breaking. Kevin has to come over and look at it again."

                Anna purses her lips, biting the inside of her cheek. Her eyes scan the room like she's going to see some ghost pop out any minute.

                Castiel sighs and scratches his eyebrow. "You wanna go to Hautley's Bend?" he asks.

                Her eyebrows press together. "Why would I want to go there? Elsa's ghost is probably there."

                "I thought you said Elsa's ghost was here," he counters.

                She pauses, and then grumbles. "Fine, let's go."

                Castiel chuckles, standing to leave. "Don't sound so excited. You're getting me all anxious."

                She rolls her eyes. "If I get eaten by a ghost, you're not getting any of my stuff."

                "Okay, one, ghosts aren't real," Castiel says, "And two, if they _were_ real, I have significant doubts that they would actually go to the trouble of eating people. Especially you. You're nothing but skin and bones."

                She slaps his arm as she follows him outside. "This is serious."

                He laughs. "You know, if Elsa were hungry, why wouldn't she just go to Missouri's? That woman has enough casseroles and bread to feed every hungry child in the world."

                Castiel doesn't bother locking the door behind himself since they'll only be gone for a half hour or so in this cold autumn weather. Anna tucks her hands into her pockets until she has to hold onto the handlebars of the bike so she doesn't fall off. They make it to Hautley's Bend in just under five minutes - it's only a couple blocks away. When they get there, it's empty, like it always is. None of the other kids in town really come here that much, but Anna says the old rusted playground equipment is growing on her and reminds her of one of their old houses in Arizona where she had a swing in the backyard. She claims it's her favorite house of theirs to date.

                Castiel doesn't have a favorite. He doesn't have a place to which he's ever grown attached enough to call his favorite. He doesn't have a place he's ever really called home. He supposes that Anna is his home.

                And that means protecting her.

                So when Dean Winchester shows up at Hautley's Bend not fifteen minutes after Castiel and Anna get there, while Anna is busy trying to swing at an angle that doesn't cause the hinges of the contraption to squeal like a dying bird, Castiel's brain reverts to caution-mode.

                Dean is walking slowly, one hand tucked in the pocket of his leather jacket, the other holding his cigarette up to his mouth as he inhales in that way that makes every sharp angle of his face catch the light in the most delicious way possible. Castiel watches Dean walk as he stands behind Anna, ready to push her as soon as she finds a better angle. She's distracted scraping bits of rust off the chain with her fingernail, as if that will help the God-awful noise the thing makes when it moves.

                Castiel knows for a fact that Dean comes to Hautley's Bend at least several times a week, because he's seen him sitting here smoking while Castiel rides by on his way to work. So it's not exactly weird to see him here now. Sometimes he'll bring his little brother Sam with him, whom Castiel met the first time he'd been here, but Dean is alone today. Cas wonders what prompts a teenager to come to a park alone on a constant basis. He wonders where Dean lives.

                But right now, despite his infatuation with the guy, Castiel has to think about someone else. He has to think about Anna. As much as he'd like to convince himself that Dean Winchester is harmless...he's not. Dean is dangerous, and everyone knows it. The fading bruises on Castiel's face know it. True, the bruises aren't all from Dean, but he is part of the reason they're there. Some of them match the shape of his knuckles.

                Castiel will protect his little sister with his life. He doesn't honestly think that Dean would do anything to harm Anna. Dean may be dangerous, but beating up a little eleven-year-old girl seems a tad bit extreme, even for him. However, if Dean decides he wants to mess with Castiel today, right here at Hautley's Bend where they first "met", Cas has no way of protecting Anna. Anna will watch it happen, and if Castiel is distracted, Anna could disappear.

                No. He can't stay here when Dean Winchester is here too.

                Right as he decides this, Dean raises his eyes and sees Castiel and Anna. He pulls his cigarette out from between his lips, licking them unconsciously, making them all shiny with spit, and that alone would have been enough to distract Castiel in math class or something, but not here. Not right now. He can't stay here.

                Now would be a good time to put Gabriel's advice to work - pretending he doesn't care when Dean and his friends mess with him. But not with Anna here.

                "What are you doing?" Anna asks as Castiel takes her arm and pulls her off the swing, glancing once at Dean, who is staring at him. He's stopped walking, and is just standing there on the sidewalk watching curiously with those big green eyes. Castiel can see the green from here.

                "Come on, we should get home," he says to Anna, pulling her towards his bike.

                "What? Why? We just got here."

                "I have homework and stuff to do," Castiel replies, making up the excuse. He looks over his shoulder at Dean, who is still standing there. He looks like he wants to say something, and Castiel watches as he actually takes a half step forward like he's about to follow Cas. But then Dean stops himself, and his lips press into a thin line, and that confused expression on his face melts into a glare that looks a little forced. And _God_ , even that glare is attractive.

                Castiel forces himself to tear his eyes away and he lifts Anna onto his handlebars again, mounting his bike and pushing off from the tree it's leaning against in the same motion. As he starts off down the street, he takes one last glance over his shoulder. Dean is running his hand roughly through his hair, tugging the strands, and he looks frustrated as he takes another drag from his cigarette and walks towards the swings where Castiel sees him sitting sometimes when he rides by.

                Breathing out a slow breath, knowing he's overreacting a bit but not caring, Castiel bikes quickly home.

                He's almost as relieved as he is confused to see a car in his driveway when they arrive. It takes him a moment to realize that it's their father's car.

                "Daddy!" Anna exclaims, jumping off the handlebars before Cas has even slowed the bike to a complete stop and sprinting towards the front door. Cas is relieved that he won't have to sit through Anna yelling at him about leaving Hautley's Bend only minutes after they got there. But...

                _What the hell is he doing here?_ Castiel thinks to himself as he parks his bike and eyes his father's car in the driveway.

                When he walks through the front door that Anna left wide open, he hears Anna talking excitedly from the kitchen. He wanders back there and finds his father standing at the fridge, looking inside while at the same time nodding along to what Anna is jabbering about. One of his father's hands is resting on Anna's shoulder like they've just pulled apart from a hug.

                It's weird seeing his father in the kitchen. He's like a guest that walked into Castiel's house without knocking. But Castiel has to remind himself that this is his _father's_ house, not his, and technically his dad still lives here, even if he hasn't actually ever spent a full night here before in the month or so that they've owned it.

                "Gosh, why is it so cold in here?" their father asks, closing the fridge and blowing into his hands, rubbing them together.

                "The heater's broken," Castiel replies, standing at the doorway of the kitchen, not quite inside yet. His father turns around and smiles when he sees his son.

                "Hey Castiel, how have you been?" he asks.

                Castiel blinks in response, unsure what to say. He just shrugs. "The heater's broken."

                His father just stares at him for a moment, and then quirks a little smile. "I can call a repair guy to come by tomorrow," he says.

                Castiel's head cocks to the side. "Are you staying?"

                "Oh, no, I was just passing through Stowe on business and though I'd swing by for the evening," his father replies, "I have to head out later tonight."

                _Shocking_ , Castiel thinks to himself.

                Bartholomew Novak has great posture. That's one thing Castiel can say he got from his father. It's probably the only thing he's ever gotten from his father, apart from his collection of shirts and other little knick-knacks from duty free and convenience stores across America. Castiel purposely walks with a bit of a slouch for the hell of it.

                "What's with all the casseroles in the fridge?" Bart asks, "Did you learn to cook?"

                Castiel bites his lip. "I've known how to cook for six years dad," he replies.

                "Oh?" his father says, surprised, "Well did you make all these? I think you did it wrong, one of them looks like it has oyster crackers in it."

                "I didn't make them," Castiel says, nodding towards the front door, "Missouri Moseley did. She lives next door."

                Bartholomew hums in acknowledgment. "Why did she make you food?"

                Anna hops up onto the counter, swinging her legs. "She felt bad that people don't cook for us, so she started making them. Plus she makes too many," Anna supplies.

                "Hm," is all Bart says, "Well can I meet her?"

                Castiel cocks his head to the side again. "Now?"

                "Sure, why not? I'll be leaving later anyway. Might as well meet the neighbors."

                Cas hesitates, licking his lips. "Um, alright, I suppose," he says.

                His father smiles, and it's like a dentist smiling. He's a salesman after all - he's got that perfect white smile, like something out of an advertisement. "Good, let's go," he says, walking towards the entrance of the kitchen.

                He pats Castiel on the back as they walk towards the front door. "I like the way you hung the pictures in the front hall. It looks nice son. Good job."

                Castiel wants to bask in the praise. He really does. But instead he just nods and opens the front door, leading the way out of the house.  

                Bartholomew Novak and Missouri Moseley could not be more opposite. Missouri answers her front door and ushers the three of them inside to keep out the cold, and Bart looks so incredibly out of place in her house it's almost laughable. He seems quite surprised when he notices that Castiel and Anna seem right at home here at Missouri's. Almost like they belong.

                "So Castiel here tells me you sell insurance?" Missouri asks conversationally in that breathy voice of hers, like a comfortable cotton blanket. She's carrying a tray of tea that she likely made herself out of all the herbs hanging in the little kitchen.

                "Yes, that's right," Bart replies, smiling that trademark smile of his as he accepts a cup of tea with a nod. Missouri hands Castiel his tea next, and she gives him a strange look, like she's communicating something to him that he's not quite getting.

                "So you're kept away working for lengthy periods, I see?" Missouri asks.

                Bart nods around his cup of tea, humming as he swallows. "Yes, sometimes months. Insurance is a lucrative but time consuming business, I'm afraid."

                Castiel glances at Anna as she cups her hands around her tea to warm them, and then sneaks a look at Missouri.

                The woman seems strangely subdued in the presence of Bartholomew. Not intimidated but...politely detached. Her questions to Castiel and Anna's father are neutral and cliché. She's like a mother who caught her child with his hand in the cookie jar. She's treating Bart like he did something wrong, but she's so subtle about it that Bartholomew likely doesn't notice. However, Castiel knows how warm and soothing Missouri's presence is on a normal basis, and right now she's not conveying that.

                Missouri Moseley does not like Bartholomew Novak. That much is clear to Castiel, though he can't think of a reason why.

                Their visit with Missouri is brief. They sit in her living room fairly awkwardly beneath her rabbit foot collection and beside her shelves of crystals, on her floral patterned clawfoot couches and chairs, and the Novak's stay just long enough to finish one cup of homemade tea each before they say their farewells.

                Missouri gives Castiel a hug. It's the first time she's ever given him a hug, and honestly it's been so long since Castiel has even _had_ a hug, that he just stands there awkwardly for a second before remembering that he's supposed to wrap his arms around her as well. The hug is warm, and Missouri is heavyset enough to where she's soft and comforting. Cas wants to bury his face in her shoulder, because that seems like the right thing to do, and he _wants_ that. But he doesn't do it, because his father is standing right there on the porch watching them.

                When Missouri finally pulls away, she eyes the bandage on Castiel's forehead that Bartholomew hasn't even bothered to ask about, and she smoothes down a frayed edge of the tape before patting his shoulder and giving Anna a hug as well, sending them on their way.

                For the rest of the night, Castiel, Anna, and Bartholomew sit in their kitchen, eating and making small talk about how school is going and how the insurance sales are coming along. They eat some of Missouri's casseroles in the fridge, and Bart insists on trying them all, humming and complimenting each one, even the one with oyster crackers. Anna does most of the talking, to Castiel's relief, and she chatters on about school and the new friends she's made. Their father glances at Castiel a few times, eyeing the little bandage on his forehead, but never asks why it's there.

                They watch TV on the couch together after dinner, and somewhere during a commercial break, Bartholomew makes a quick phone call to get a repair man out tomorrow for the heater, complaining that his fingertips are numb.

                It's well past Anna's bed time when their father finally leaves, letting them know he hopes he'll be home in time for Thanksgiving in a month. Anna and Castiel stand at the front door and watch his car drive away, and then Castiel ushers his sister to bed, swaddling her in blankets and her coat so she's not too cold.

                It takes Cas hours to fall asleep, and he's actually almost glad that Bartholomew came to visit tonight, because it didn't give Castiel a chance to daydream about Dean Winchester.

                However, now, alone in his room in the middle of the night with no surprise visits from absent fathers to distract him, Castiel can think of nothing _but_ Dean Winchester, and all those little emotions that flitted across his face earlier at Hautley's Bend. He wonders about Dean. He wonders where Dean lives, why he spends so much time at Hautley's Bend, why he feels like he has to beat up Castiel and all those other students he and the Cancers pick on when Castiel can tell that he doesn't seem to want to.

                Maybe he's reading too much into it. People aren't _accidentally_ bullies. Dean chooses to be a bully. Just like his friends choose to be bullies.

                Castiel wonders if the fact that Dean is handsome - _God_ he's handsome - is making Cas biased though. Just because someone is pretty on the outside doesn't mean they're pretty on the inside.              

                But Castiel is a rational person, and a pretty face doesn't deflect him from the truth. Dean is so much more than a pretty face.

                Castiel falls asleep well past midnight, and wakes up in the morning to Anna bursting into his room and yelling that he's going to be late. He leaps out of bed and brushes his teeth and doesn't even have time for breakfast before he's running out the door to walk through the woods to school. It's icy cold outside - too cold to be without a sweatshirt.

                With a groan he runs back into the house and searches for the one sweatshirt he owns - some hoodie with alligators on it that Bartholomew got for Castiel in Florida. And _why_ they're selling hoodies in _Florida_ is beyond Castiel.

                He can't find the sweatshirt and grumbles to himself, opening the coat closet next to the front door and grabbing the first one he sees. It's one of his dad's old coats that Bartholomew never wears anymore - an old tan trench coat that nearly touches the floor when Castiel puts it on. It looks ridiculous, but whatever. It's too cold to go without anything, and since when does Castiel _not_ look ridiculous at school? All bruises and crazy hair and shirts from every state like a walking souvenir shop.

                Hugging the trench coat around himself, he grabs his backpack and jogs towards the woods.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean savors the feeling of hot smoke rolling down his throat as he takes in a drag of his cigarette. It's just him, Zach, and Alastair at The Docks this morning. Crowley and Gordon had complained that it's too cold to stay outside and disappeared into the school shortly after arriving. Al is chattering about something unimportant that Dean's not really listening to. In fact, he's actually _trying_ not to listen. He hates the sound of Alastair's voice, like steam hissing through a straw.

                It's Dean who spots Castiel first when the blue eyed boy comes walking out of the trees a little ways away and past The Docks, wearing a somewhat ridiculous looking accountant get-up and hugging himself against the cold as he walks towards the school. Dean just watches him go as he takes another drag on his smoke. He likes watching Castiel walk. Normally, if one of them saw Cas passing by, they'd go over and taunt the guy, but it's cold out and Castiel looks like he's freezing and in a hurry, so Dean says nothing. Al and Zach are facing the wrong way anyway, so Dean just pretends he doesn't see Cas. They'll hand his ass to him later when the chill of the morning has passed.

                Castiel stops walking when he's halfway across the parking lot and stoops down to tie his shoe as Dean watches, his adorably ridiculous trench coat pooling around him on the pavement. Zach stands up from where he's sitting beside Alastair on one of the boulders, and Dean _almost_ grabs his arm to stop him from turning around because he knows if Zach turns around, he's going to see Castiel and they'll want to mess with the kid. But Dean doesn't stop Zach, because why _should_ he? So what if Castiel is cold and in a hurry? Why should that matter to Dean?

                Zach starts laughing when he spots Castiel, just as Cas is standing up from tying his shoe and continues on his way towards the school. "Dude, look at Novak's coat!" Zach laughs, "Idiot looks like he's wearing a cape."

                Al looks over his shoulder at Castiel and laughs too. Dean forces himself chuckle a little too because his friends are laughing. The coat _is_ kind of funny.

                "Watch this," Al says mischievously, standing up from the boulder and searching the ground for something, "Target practice." Dean stares as Al scoops up a medium-sized rock from the ground and turns, gauging how far Castiel is before reeling back and throwing the rock through the air. Castiel isn't that far away really, but it's still an impressive throw.

                Dean winces a little as the rock hits Cas in the back of the head, causing him to duck down and grab his hair, uttering a pained yelp. Al whoops and bursts out laughing, high-fiving Zach, who is busy searching for a rock of his own to throw. Dean drops the butt of his cigarette, scraping the glowing tip out with the heel of his boot as Zach finds a rock even bigger than the one Alastair threw.

                Castiel looks back at them with a pained grimace on his face, presumably to see who threw something at him, and Zach chooses then to throw his own rock. This one hits Castiel right in the side of his forehead, and knocks him off his feet. He lands on his knees, holding his face. Dean can see a little bit of blood, even from here.

                Zach cheers and laughs harder, and tosses a rock to Dean. "Your turn," he says.

                Dean looks at the rock in his hand, and then past his friends' laughing faces to where Castiel is kneeling on the ground, touching his forehead and pulling his hand away, looking at the blood on his palm. Something pulls at Dean's heart, but he stubbornly ignores it, and reels back, throwing the rock hard. He purposely misses Castiel's head, aiming for his back, and when the rock hits Castiel in the ribs just beside his backpack, Dean watches the boy flinch and start to try to stand.

                "What was that Dean? I thought you had better aim than that!" Zach whines, smacking Dean in the shoulder. Dean just shrugs and grabs his backpack, ready to head inside.

                "Come on," Al grins, grabbing up a few more rocks and starting to walk across the parking lot. He's not headed towards the school - he's headed towards Castiel.

                Zach chuckles and follows him, scooping up a couple rocks on his way, and Dean sighs, hesitating before walking after them too. Castiel barely regains his footing before Zach throws another rock at his head. It hits Cas in the back of the neck, but he still falls to his knees again, off-balance and a little disoriented from the previous hits.

                Al throws another one of the rocks in his hand, missing by a few inches, and Dean sees Castiel flinch as the stone bounces past his face. Cas looks back at them again while trying to stand and Zach throws his whole handful of rocks at the kid. One of them hits Cas in the side of the mouth, splitting his lip, but the rest of the rocks miss him, which is probably a good thing. He's already bleeding enough.

                Al throws the rest of his rocks at the same time, and Cas ducks his head down, holding his bleeding mouth and flinching. He's still on the ground when the three of them reach him, and Dean can hear him making little pained noises that are barely audible in the morning chill. Dean watches as Al pulls out his lighter from his pocket. He's confused for a second, because he thinks that Al is going to throw the lighter at Castiel. Why waste a good lighter?

                But then, Al flicks the lighter on, and a little flame pops out of the top. Alastair doesn't even hesitate before leaning down over Castiel and touching the little flame to the edge of Castiel's long tan trench coat.

                Dean's eyes widen as the trench coat catches on fire quickly. The material is thin, soft, and dry, perfectly flammable, and Al laughs as the fire starts to grow, climbing up Castiel's side and licking at the sleeve of the garment. Castiel doesn't notice that he's on fire at first, still trying to get his feet under him and get to the school.

                When he does notice though, just as the flames are starting to eat through the coat, he gasps and flails, slipping on the pavement while trying to get the coat off. He ends up on his ass trying to get his arms out of the sleeves, but his backpack is on over the coat and prevents him from pulling the flaming thing off quicker.

                Dean doesn't think. He just reacts.

                Before he knows what he's doing, he's shoving past the laughing Alastair and gawking Zach, and he's reaching down, grabbing Castiel by the arms and bodily hauling him to his feet. Castiel fights his hold as much as he fights to try to get the quickly-burning trench coat off of himself.

                Dean grabs the straps of Castiel's backpack and rips the thing off of him so roughly it probably bruises Castiel's shoulders, but Dean is moving so blindly he doesn't even realize it. He shoves Castiel's arms out of the way and takes the lapels of the trench coat, tearing it off of the boy just as the flames are crawling up onto his shoulder. Dean throws the flaming garment aside as Castiel stumbles back and away from him and the fire, falling to the ground and shuffling back by his heels. His blue eyes are impossibly wide and he's breathing hard in shock, staring up at Dean.

                Dean scans Castiel's body, making sure he's not on fire anywhere else. The back of his hair is singed a little from the flames, and from here Dean can see a small blister on his arm where the fire ate through the coat too quickly. He looks otherwise unburned. Dean stomps the flaming coat out and stares down at Cas. They lock eyes and they're both breathing hard, Castiel's mouth and forehead bleeding, dripping onto his I Love NY t-shirt.

                It's about then that Dean realizes what he just did. He swallows hard and glances back at Zach and Alastair, who are just standing there watching everything happen with judgement in their eyes. Zach is stifling a bit of laughter, and Al is staring at Dean, looking somewhat pissed at Dean for putting an end to his prank. But that _wasn't_ a prank. Alastair lit Castiel on _fire_. Dean knows what it's like to be on fire. That wasn't a _joke_.

                But still, he suddenly feels a little embarrassed. He and his friends don't help losers, they hurt them. And he just helped Castiel. He looks down at the remaining half of the trench coat, black and in shreds on the ground, and then looks back at Castiel where he's just sitting there staring at Dean. He looks like he's in shock.

                Dean grits his teeth, and he realizes his hands are shaking a little as he reaches down and scoops up the coat. He needs to restore the natural order of things here. Wadding the coat up into a charred tan and black ball in his hands, he turns and throws the thing harder-than-necessary into Castiel's face. Cas fumbles to catch it, blinking  down at the coat and then back up at Dean. Dean wants to say something, something snide or witty. He's usually so good at insulting people. But he can only stare at Cas for a few seconds, and he musters up his best glare, his lip twitching his frustration.

                Then he turns, walking towards the school without another word. Al and Zach follow after him, leaving Castiel there bleeding and burned on the ground.

                For the rest of the day, phantom pains travel up and down Dean's side over his scars, aching and nagging, demanding his attention when he'd rather think about _anything_ but the feeling of fire melting away his skin.

                Castiel doesn't show up to their math class, and Dean wonders if maybe he went to the hospital for the wounds on his head. Dean has to leave class halfway through because he can't stand the pain in his side. Can't stand the pain that isn't even really there.

                And he can't stand the image of Castiel's shocked pale face flashing through his mind every five minutes.

                He grips his scarred up side as he whips out his phone and sends a text off to Crowley. Alastair is at The Docks when Dean steps outside, so he turns and heads the other direction, meeting Crowley at the front of the school. They walk off together towards Ghost Town, just the two of them, and Crowley doesn't even ask about Dean's hand clutching his side the whole time. Crowley has seen Dean's scars. He's never asked about them, and Dean has never told anyone.

                They sit in the train car together, and Dean doesn't say a word, just accepts the alcohol when Crowley offers it, and Crowley supplies all the conversation. He's good at that, talking, and unlike Alastair's hissing voice, Crowley's is soothing like burnt whiskey.

                Dean drinks and drinks and drinks. He drinks until he can no longer see Castiel's face in his head. He drinks until he can no longer feel the ache of phantom flames turning his body to ash. And he drinks until he can no longer smell burning hairspray.


	6. Swimming Pools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and commented so far - your comments are so so encouraging! This is my first fanfiction so I was just sort of experimenting when I posted it, but your guys' comments are really the reason I've kept writing and update so fast. Thank you so much for being so supportive <3 It means a lot to my strange, shy self hahaha

                The emergency room is practically empty of patients when Castiel arrives there mid-morning. He must look borderline laughable when he walks in, holding the burnt remains of his father's trench coat to his forehead to stop the bleeding. The split on the side of his mouth where Zachariah had thrown the rock has stopped bleeding already, but he can still taste the coppery tang on his tongue.

                He doesn't realize he's shaking, or that his fingers are numb, until he tries to pick up a pen at reception to sign himself into the hospital. He's not surprised that he can only see one other patient besides himself. It's a small town, and today is as unremarkable as they come. This little hospital probably doesn't see much more action than the occasional broken hip or appendectomy.

                "Sir, are you alright?" the receptionist asks, standing up from her chair.

                Castiel continues to try to pick up the pen from the counter. He keeps missing. His head throbs. "Um, I'm...bleeding," he responds distractedly. His cold fingers finally wrap around the body of the pen, and he searches for a sign in sheet.

                "Sir, you can fill out your paperwork later," the receptionist says, reaching out for the pen, "Let me page someone for you."

                "Okay," Castiel replies simply, releasing the pen  and standing there awkwardly, clutching the ruined garment to his head. He eyes the waiting room. There are blue plastic chairs and a tropical salt water fish tank. An elderly man with crutches is sitting in the corner looking out the window, and Castiel isn't entirely sure whether or not the man is awake behind his sunglasses.

                "Sir, can I get your name?" the receptionist asks, covering the mouthpiece of the phone she's on.

                "Castiel Novak," he replies, blinking. He barely hears himself. His ears are ringing. He barely remembers walking here. Is this what shock feels like? Is he in shock? He doesn't know why he would be. His injuries, to his knowledge, aren't that bad.

                He can still feel the heat of the fire on the back of his head. He shivers.

                "Alright Mr. Novak, a nurse will be out in just a minute to help you," the receptionist says, "She asked that you take a seat while you wait."

                Castiel nods and swallows, sitting down next to the giant fish tank and staring in at an anemone as it sways and drifts in the current of the filter, the bulbous branches reflecting the light in a calming orange-pink. A clownfish darts in and out of it, swirling around the arms before drifting up to the glass next to Castiel's face. He stares at the fish right in the eyes, and the thing stares back.

                "I'll bet the other fish don't throw rocks at you," Castiel murmurs to the clownfish. It floats there for another second or two and then drifts off to the other side of the tank. Castiel sighs and leans back in his chair, removing the trench coat from his face and looking at all the blood covering it. He wonders if Bartholomew will be upset that his trench coat is ruined. He wonders if his father will even notice.

                Green eyes are flashing through his head. Angry, panicked green eyes. Dean had saved him. Dean had _saved_ him. Castiel knows for a fact that the fire would have burned him a lot worse than it did had Dean not stepped in and all but torn his clothes off when he did. Why did he do that? Why did he save him? Why did he help him when all Dean has really done so far since Castiel met him has been hurt him over and over with his friends? Why now? Why did he decide to help him now?

                "Castiel Novak?" a woman's voice calls. Cas looks up and the nurse smiles, waving him over. She's pretty, with dark hair and hazel eyes, and her smile is comforting. He stands, and his knees are a little shaky as he makes his way over there. She leads him back into a large room that's empty apart from a woman on a gurney to the side with a bandage on her nose, a silver-haired doctor hovering over her.

                Castiel sits down on a hospital bed and the nurse - her nametag reads Tessa - pulls a curtain in front of it closed for a little more privacy. "Alright," she says with a smile, setting her clipboard down, "Looks like you had a little accident today. Can you tell me what happened?" She begins unwrapping sterile gauze packets and different liquids. Castiel eyes the suture kit on the table next to her and grits his teeth.

                He considers lying briefly. He hates the look people give him when he tells them kids at school beat him up. Other times when he's had to go to the hospital, he's told them he fell or ran into a wall. But today, he feels strangely tired, and wonders if it's the shock.

                He elects to tell the truth, prodding at his swollen and tender forehead with his fingertips. "Some people at school threw rocks at me," he says, looking down at the floor next to the bed, "My head wouldn't stop bleeding, so I came here." He wishes the school nurse had been there today, but when he'd gone to check, the clinic was closed for some reason.

                "Why were they throwing rocks at you?" she asks, her eyes tilted sympathetically, forehead crunching. She scoots forward on her stool and starts dabbing at Castiel's face with a wet cloth, just wiping away the blood for now.

                Castiel shrugs. "Because they were bored," he supplies. He doesn't want to get into the whole psychological dynamic of bullying.

                She hums in understanding, cleaning away the rest of the blood on his forehead and the side of his mouth. "They sound like assholes," she mutters, and Castiel actually smiles a little, giving a small chuckle.

                "Yes, I suppose they are," he replies. She smiles at him and then leans in closer to get a better look at the gash on his forehead. "Well it doesn't look like it needs any stitches, but I'm gonna put a butterfly bandage on it to keep it closed until it can heal," she says, "You'll have a fat lip for a day or two but that looks like it'll be okay. Dr. Garrison can give you some cream for it."

                Castiel winces a little as she applies an antiseptic gel and then secures the butterfly bandage onto his forehead. He resists the urge to pick at it, huffing a little to himself. He'd just last night pulled the bandage off his forehead that Missouri had put there a week ago. Here he thought he'd have a day or two without anything stuck to his face.

                "A rock hit the back of my head too," he says absently, "I think it's bleeding."

                She goes around behind him and prods gently at his hair. He flinches when she grazes her gloved fingertips over the wound. "Sorry," she says, leaning in and cleaning a little bit of the blood away, parting his hair enough to get a good view of the wound. "Mm, 'fraid this one will need a couple stitches," she says regrettably.

                He watches her grab up the suture kit. "Alright, a little pinch here," she warns, and Castiel feels a sting on the back of his head as she injects the local anesthetic. "Let me know if you feel any pain, and I can dose you with some more," she says.

                Castiel nods and sits quietly while she stitches the back of his head, chewing on his lip and listening to the doctor and the lady with the injured nose across the room talking quietly.

                "You have some fresh blisters on the back of your neck here," Tessa notes as she ties off the last stitch and places a small bandage on his head, "Do you know what those are from?"

                Castiel swallows and tries desperately not to think about Dean pulling the flaming trench coat off of him. Why did he do that?

                "They set me on fire," he replies to Tessa, picking at the bloody trench coat in his lap.

                "The ones who threw the rocks at you?" she asks, trying to hide the shock in her voice.

                "Yes," he replies.

                She huffs a small breath of disbelief as she walks back around him and searches for something in the drawers near the bed. "Is that what caused the blister on your arm as well?"

                He nods, looking down at it while he prods gently at the bandage on the back of his head. She straightens up with a tube of burn cream in her hands, using a cotton swab to dab it on his arm and the back of his neck, bandaging both. "You know, if you haven't already, you should really tell an adult at your school about this," she insists as she secures the last bandage, "I've never been in the situation personally, but my brother was picked on a bit back in high school too. Do you go to the local high school just down the way?"

                "Yes," Castiel confirms, "But I'd rather not make a big deal out of it. I just want to go to school."

                Tessa chuckles a little. "You sound just like my brother. Never wanting to ask for help."

                Castiel doesn't know what to say so he stays quiet, looking at the bandage on his arm as she wraps up her used supplies and removes her gloves.

                "Alright, all finished," she says, giving him a bright smile, her eyes twinkling in the fluorescent lights, "Just hang out here for a minute and Dr. Garrison will be over to check you out. Casey up front will take your insurance information when you're done."

                "Thank you Tessa," Castiel nods with a sigh. His fingertips are beginning to thaw out. He feels a little better.

                She nods with another small smile. "Take care of yourself Mr. Novak," she says before slipping out of the curtain.

                Castiel pulls in a deep breath and holds it for a moment before letting it out slowly. He eyes the medical supplies around him and picks up his father's trench coat, hesitating before throwing it into the trash next to the bed. He decides he just won't mention it to Bartholomew, and if he happens to notice it's gone, Castiel will say it must have gotten lost in the move. Things gets lost when they move all the time. And he'd rather not explain the truth to his father.

                Dr. Garrison swings by briefly and checks Tessa's work, giving Castiel a burn cream and something for his split lip to bring home, as well as a prescription for some pain killers. Castiel thanks him and thanks Tessa again and stands, leaving and filling out whatever paperwork he needs to fill out up front with Casey the receptionist. Casey informs him that the doctor recommends that someone should come pick Castiel up instead of having him walk all the way back to town. It's only about five miles or so to his house, but his head throbs.

                Casey offers to call him a cab, but he declines and pulls out his phone, sitting down in the blue plastic chairs next to the fish tank again and scrolling through, trying to decide who he can call in the middle of the week day. Gabe and Charlie and Kevin are all at school, and Missouri is working. He taps his thumbnail against the phone screen, thinking of anyone else he knows in this town who would be willing to come get him.

                The only person he can think of is Bobby Singer. The man is very kind and a very good boss, but he and Castiel aren't exactly buddies in the broader sense of the word. They share a professional relationship. He bites the inside of his cheek, staring at Bobby's contact on his phone. It's the number for the craft shop, and if Bobby answers, that would mean he's working. But generally he's not the only one working. Jo had told him she works there sometimes when no one else can fill in, and sometimes Castiel sees this guy Adam leaving his shift when Castiel arrives for his.

                Castiel glances at the reception desk, pondering whether he should ask Casey for the number of a cab. But he can't afford a taxi right now, and so with a sigh, he presses _Call_ and puts the phone to his ear.

                Bobby picks up after three rings with a gruff, "Singer speaking," and Castiel hesitates before clearing his throat.

                "Uh, Mr. Singer? It's Castiel Novak, sir," he says.

                "Castiel, what'd I tell you about callin' me 'sir'?" Bobby says by way of greeting, "What can I do for ya kid? Can you still come in to work tonight?"

                Damn, Castiel forgot he had a shift tonight from three to seven.

                "Um, yes, I'll be there," Castiel says, "I was just calling to ask you a really big favor."

                "Yeah?" Bobby asks, "What's that?"

                Castiel clears his throat, biting his lip, wondering if he's crossing a line here. Sure, Bobby is his boss, and they've spent their fair share of evenings together at the craft shop, but it's not like they're friends. They don't meet up for drinks. They don't catch the game together. And they don't give each other rides.

                "I'm, um, at the hospital," Castiel says, "I was wondering if you're free to come pick me up. I just don't have anyone else I can call."

                "You alright son? What are you doing at the hospital?" Bobby asks, and Castiel is surprised by the amount of concern in his voice.

                "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Castiel replies, "They just told me it would be best if I didn't walk all the way back to town by myself, and my house is five miles way."

                "Gimme a sec," Bobby says into the phone, and Castiel hears him pull the phone away from his ear. He's speaking to someone in the background.

                "Alright son, you still there?" Bobby asks when he returns to the phone.

                Castiel nods before he realizes Bobby can't see him. "Yes."

                "Alright, I'll be there in about ten minutes. Adam here can watch the shop for about a half an hour just fine," Bobby says, "That okay?"

                Castiel swallows down a wave of relief and gratefulness. "Yes sir, that's okay. Thank you so much."

                "No problem kid," Bobby replies, "And don't call me sir, damn it, I don't got a bow tie on."

                Castiel laughs a little, wincing at it stretches his swollen lip. "Sorry Bobby."

                Bobby chuckles on the other end. "See you soon kid."

                The line goes dead and Castiel sighs, tucking his phone back in his pocket and leaning back in the chair, staring at the fish. The clownfish is hanging out on his side of the tank again, swirling around through the anemone and looking out at Castiel. Castiel nods at the fish. "I think I'm going to be okay," he says. The fish swims down to the bottom of the tank and pecks at the pebbles before floating back up level with Castiel's eyes again, little bubbles popping out of its mouth.

                Castiel spends the next ten minutes considering the possibility of getting himself a fish. He's never owned a pet before, and he doesn't know anything about taking care of one, but it's nice to have someone to talk to.

                He decides against it though. They move too much, and moving a fish it difficult. He'll get one in college.

                Bobby walks into the hospital exactly eleven minutes later wearing his usual get up of a white t-shirt, a flannel, and worn jeans. His ratty hat is on top of his head over his stringy hair. He nods to Castiel and Castiel glances at Casey at the reception desk. She gives him a small smile and a wave and he smiles back before following Bobby out of the hospital.

                "You live in that old place on Coolidge right?" Bobby asks as he climbs into his truck, Castiel climbing into the passenger side. It's one of those older trucks where the seats in the back face the middle of the cab instead of forward.

                "Yes," Castiel replies, "Thank you so much for doing this Bobby." It feels weird to call his boss by his first name, but he forces himself to.

                Bobby starts up the truck with a roar. "What happened to ya kid?" he asks, eyeing the bandages on Castiel's forehead, neck, and arm, "You get mauled by a deer?"

                Castiel chuckles a little. "No," he replies, "I just crossed paths with the wrong people."

                "Kids from your school?" Bobby asks. Castiel nods, looking out the window, not wanting to get into this again. Mention that you're bullied once, and adults think it's like the end of the world or something.

                "Well damn son, did you at least get a good punch or two in?" Bobby asks with a chuckle.

                Castiel shrugs. "Maybe one or two," he lies. He doesn't want to tell Bobby that he didn't fight back, that he never fights back. He may not like to hurt people, but it doesn't mean he's not allowed to be a little embarrassed about the fact that he refuses to defend himself when someone is hurting him.

                They spend the rest of the drive in comfortable silence. Bobby turns on the radio to some blues station and cranks up the heat in the cab until Castiel's fingers are fully thawed. His arms still prickle with goose bumps the second he opens his door when Bobby pulls up in front of his house. He thanks Bobby and assures him he'll be to work by three, and then hurries inside where it's about one degree warmer.

                Dr. Garrison had told him not to wash his hair for a few days while the stitches on the back of his head heal, so he opts to take a hot bath to warm up. He briefly considers going back to school, but decides against it when he thinks about the fact that he might run into the Cancers again. He doesn't think he can take another beating today with the burns and bruises all over him.

                He sinks into the bath tub, shivering as the warmth engulfs his body, wincing when the hot water touches his burns, and as he lays there with his head tilted at an odd angle to avoid pressing his stitches to the ceramic edge of the tub, he counts the little bubbles in the paint on the ceiling to keep his mind from wandering back to thoughts of Dean Winchester and his panicked eyes this morning as he saved Castiel from going up in flames.

 

*       *       *

 

                Crowley has to practically carry Dean home that afternoon from Ghost Town, Dean's so drunk. He's so drunk he can't keep his eyes open. But the pain in his side is gone, the phantom flames eating away at his skin doused. So that's a plus. Dean laughs at something Crowley says as they stumble through the woods, and then forgets what he said two minutes later, only to start laughing at his accent. Crowley just rolls his eyes.

                "I haven't the slightest how you're even conscious right now," Crowley grumbles, hoisting Dean up a bit higher so he's not dragging his knees on the ground, "You drank the whole bloody bottle by yourself."

                Dean just giggles, and Crowley rolls his eyes again.

                "He set Cas on fire, Ferg," Dean slurs through his giggles, "Like a wicker man." The words sound perfectly clear to Dean, but he can see Crowley tilting his ear towards him in an attempt to understand, so he must not be speaking that clearly.

                "Oh for the love of all that is holy, please don't call me Fergus," Crowley groans, "My mother calls me Fergus."

                " _My_ mother doesn't call me anythin'," Dean points out, waving a finger in the air like he's trying to make a point.

                Crowley doesn't respond, grunting in his efforts to keep Dean upright. He's quite a bit shorter than Dean and Dean is practically draped over his shoulders like a towel, dragging his heels.

                "Hey Crow?" Dean asks, trying to keep his head up.

                "Yeah?"

                Dean looks over at him, practically breathing in his ear. He sees Crowley cringe at the smell of his alcohol-drowned breath. "Didya see Cas t'day?" Dean asks. He trips over a root and they almost fall, but Crowley catches them both at the last second.

                "The Novak boy?" Crowley grunts, "No."

                "I really need to talk to 'im," Dean says, "Al lit 'im on fire. I don' think tha's very nice. D'you?"

                Crowley scoffs. "I don't think you need to be talking to anyone right now," he says, "I think you need to concentrate on walking. One foot in front of the other. Yes that's right."

                Dean looks down at his feet and then decides that's a bad idea when the world spins. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and swallows back the urge to spew.

                "And besides, why do you care what happens to Castiel? He's a loser," Crowley points out.

                Dean huffs a sigh, blowing out all the breath in his lungs through his lips. He doesn't have the energy to respond, so he just grips Crowley's sleeve and forces himself to walk. The whole world feels watery and transparent. If he reached out and touched a tree right now, he's halfway convinced that his hand would go right through it like touching the surface of a swimming pool.

                He ponders this, and the fact that swimming pools are the color of Castiel's eyes...or Castiel's _eyes_ are the color of _swimming pools_ , all the way back home. His house is right up against the forest, which is probably a good thing right about now. Crowley leads him up to the back door, bless his heart.

                "Hey Crow?" Dean asks again, huffing a little in exertion.

                "Yes?" Crowley is breathing hard too. Dean's not exactly a small guy, and Crowley just practically carried him for two miles.

                "Wha' d'you think of swimmin' pools?" Dean mumbles with a watery grin.

                Crowley drops him on the small back porch, propping him up against the wall and looking down at him with narrowed eyes. "I suggest you vomit before trying to sleep," he says, ignoring Dean's question, "Your body is going to hate you tomorrow."

                Dean giggles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand as Crowley reaches out and opens the flimsy screen and chipped door. He disappears inside for a moment, and Dean doesn't think to warn him that John Winchester might be in there in an even worse state than Dean is.

                But he returns with Sammy by his side, and Dean squeaks ecstatically - actually fucking _squeaks_ \- when he sees his brother, giving a little wave and reaching for him. "Sammy!" he exclaims excitedly, "Crow, this's m'brother!" Sam raises his eyebrows as Dean grabs at his forearms, looking at Crowley.

                Crowley pats Sam on the shoulder. "Good luck with him then," he says, and nods to them both before walking off towards the trees, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pea coat. Sam makes a noise of protest, glancing between Crowley and Dean, and then stumbles when Dean pulls him down into a big hug.

                "Good t'see ya man," Dean slurs, his voice muffled in Sam's hair as he practically smothers him. Sam gives him a couple pats on the back.

                "Yeah Dean, alright," he says, "Come on, let's get you to your room before dad comes home. He'll be pissed if he sees you like this."

                Dean straightens up a little at the mention of John, and it's as if it switches his body into action. He grunts with the effort it takes to get his feet underneath himself, and he has to use the wall and Sam to stand. Sam struggles under his weight, the little twelve-year-old scrawny kid dragging his older brother into the house and down the hall to his bedroom.

                He deposits Dean onto his bed, making sure he's on his side before standing up to leave, but Dean giggles and grabs Sam's arm, pulling him down with him and wrapping one arm around his shoulders, grinding his knuckles into Sam's head with the other hand. Sam yells out in complaint.

                "Dean! There's a strict No Noogie rule in this house!" Sam protests, slapping at Dean's face at an awkward angle. Dean just laughs and relents after a good thirty seconds of noogie attack, collapsing back on his bed and releasing Sam, breathing hard, grinning from ear to ear.

                Sam crawls away, rubbing his head and glowering at Dean, his shaggy hair all messed up and sticking out at odd angles. "What the hell happened today?" he asks Dean, smoothing his hair down a bit, "Why are you toasted?"

                Dean just pulls in a deep breath and then blows it all out, rubbing his stubble with one hand. His face feels clammy. "Wha' d'you think of swimmin' pools Sammy?" he asks, ignoring Sam's question.

                Sam's eyebrows press together. "What? Why?"

                Dean turns his eyes towards the ceiling and stares at Chewbacca thoughtfully. "Cas has swimmin' pools for eyes," Dean insists, "Like...swimmin' pools, man."

                "Who's...?" Sam asks, and then his eyes widen, "You mean Castiel? That guy from Hautley's Bend?"

                Dean grins. "Yeah."

                Sam chuckles a little. "What, do you have a crush on the guy or something?"

                Dean just stares at the _Return of the Jedi_ poster above him, chewing on his lip. Sam stares at him for a long moment, and then sighs, running his hand through his messy hair one more time before standing.

                "Where ya goin'?" Dean asks.

                "Just gonna get you some water," Sam replies, disappearing from the room. He returns a minute later with a full glass and pulls Dean upright by the collar of his shirt. "Drink it all," Sam orders, in a voice that doesn't invite argument.

                Dean forces himself to drink the entire glass, slowly but surely draining it, and by the time he finishes it, he feels pregnant, and his stomach sloshes when he lays back down.

                "On your side," Sam says, and Dean grumbles but obeys. He knows the drill. They've done this too many times with John, it's like a regular show in this house. Sam drags Dean's trash can over to the side of the bed.

                "If you have to puke, do it in there," he says, pointing at the small can, "I'm not cleaning up any of your insides."

                Dean chuckles, eyes already falling closed. "Yeah, yeah," he mumbles.

                Sam looks at him for a moment, and then turns to leave the room again.

                "He lit 'im on fire Sammy," Dean calls after his brother, and Sam stops at the doorway, looking back.

                "What?"

                Dean rubs his face again. "Cas was on fire," he says, and suddenly he's not laughing anymore. He just stares at Sam, and he suddenly feels so fucking empty it's borderline ridiculous. He feels like he's going to melt, or vomit, or both.

                "Castiel was on _fire_?" Sam repeats, looking confused and surprised, "What the hell are you talking about?"

                Dean waves his hand a bit. "'S'okay," he says, "'S'okay, I think everythin'll be okay. We're okay right?"

                Sam just looks at Dean, half-confused, and half-sad, and Dean isn't sure why Sammy is sad right now, but he's suddenly too exhausted to ask. Sam stands there for a long moment, and then he wanders over to the foot of the mattress. Dean doesn't look at him, focusing most of his attention on the trash can beside his head, reminding himself again and again to aim for it in case he pukes.

                He feels Sam unlacing his boots and yanking them off one at a time, and then his little brother is tugging his Batman blanket out from under his limp, heavy form and draping it over him, tucking it around his shoulders.

                "Get some rest, Dean," Sam says, patting his cheek. He leaves and comes back once with another full glass of water, setting it by the bed, and then takes one last lingering look at Dean before switching off the light and closing the door.

                Dean is _drunk_. Very drunk. But he still somehow manages to hold onto consciousness for a good hour or so after Sam leaves his room. He hears John come home, and he sounds just about the same as Dean, stumbling around, crashing into a wall. Dean hears something clatter to the floor in the kitchen, and Sam's small voice talking to his father. He's glad John just stumbles to his room and slams the door. He doesn't think he could have gotten himself up and out there to protect Sammy if John was in a pissed off mood tonight.

                The last thing he hears is Sammy wandering into his room right next to Dean's, and Dean listens to him through the paper-thin wall, and he hears the tell-tale sound of pages turning and some kind of really shitty country music playing so so softly out of Sam's little clock radio on his nightstand. Dean passes out to the sound of some twangy guy singing about a woman he lost. There may have also been something about a tractor, although Dean might have imagined that.

                He wishes it was a song about swimming pools.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel arrives to work a little early that afternoon, because he feels bad for making Bobby come pick him up at the hospital earlier. Jo is there when he gets there and she gives him a big sweet smile, politely ignoring the bandages and the growing bruises on Castiel's face. Bobby must have said something to her, because she doesn't seem like the type of girl to disregard things like this. She's straight-forward and blunt, just like her father.

                He smiles back, lifting only the uninjured corner of his mouth, giving her a crooked grin and taking his place behind the counter. She grabs her things and heads out, kissing Bobby once on the cheek and telling him she'll see him at home later. Castiel looks away as they say goodbye, studiously ignoring the familiar longing in his gut for someone to see at home like that.

                He has Anna. That should be enough. But somehow it's just not.

                However, Missouri Moseley is quickly becoming a warm presence in their lives. She even took Anna to get her hair cut a few days ago. And right now she's waiting at their house for the repair man to come and fix the heater since Castiel can't be there to show the man in. Castiel has never had a neighbor like Missouri. It's like they've known each other for years - the woman has taken them under her wing. Cas has absolutely no clue why, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

                Bobby comes up behind Castiel as Cas is pulling out his colorful array of papers and markers to make more origami for the shop. He slaps Castiel companionably on the back. "Your mobiles are selling like hot cakes boy," he chuckles, flicking at one of the mobiles above the desk, "Keep this up and you'll be a rich man in no time."

                Castiel smiles. "Thank you Bobby."

                The man nods once with a little grunt and a smile and grabs his whiskey out from under the counter again, heading to the back to deal with paperwork from the many dealers he buys crafts and antiques from.

                When Castiel had first started working here, his origami wasn't selling that well by itself. But then he'd gotten the idea to make mobiles out of the little paper creations, and it was as easy as hanging ten to fifteen little origami shapes from curves of wire and fishing line, and he had decorations that sell remarkably well.

                His origami angels are particularly popular in this part of town. A block away on 3rd Street, there are at least three different churches, and this whole area of town is a popular settling spot for retirees and religious elderly folk who like angels and crosses and going to church on Sundays. So, while Castiel doesn't like making the origami angels as much, they sell the fastest, and he could use the money. He's saving as much as he can for college and the future.

                He's made other mobiles too though, for fun mostly. And many of them do sell. His favorite is the one hanging right above the desk, still bobbing and swinging a little from where Bobby had flicked it. It's a dozen little origami Yoda's and light sabers, arranged in faltering levels. He's always liked Star Wars.

                He spends the next few hours folding up a bunch of roses, and stringing fishing line through them to hang from the wires later. A couple customers come in, but mostly it's a quiet weekday night. Bobby comes out towards the end of his shift and eyes his work. "Looks good," he says, knocking once on the counter as he passes by to straighten things out on the shelves.

                "Castiel?" Bobby calls out from somewhere near the back of the shop.

                "Yes si-Bobby?" he asks, catching himself at the last second before calling him 'sir' again.

                "You don't believe all that hogwash about Hautley, do ya?" Bobby asks from the back, and Castiel's brow furrows in confusion.

                "Which part?"

                "Oh, ya know, the whole deal with Elsa haunting the woods and all that," Bobby says, coming out from behind one of the shelves, dusting off his hands, "I got a dealer who lives out near all those old train cars in the backwoods who says he swears he hears Elsa Hautley crying during the night. I ain't had one phone call with the crusty old bastard that hasn't somehow ended up with him blathering about the dead Hautley lady."

                Castiel purses his lips with a small shrug. "I, uh, I don't really give it much thought," he says, "My friends talk about it sometimes, and the kids at the K-8 have my little sister hooked on the story."

                Bobby chuckles. "Yeah, it's a real popular folktale with the kids around here. You'll get used to it."

                Castiel fiddles with one of his roses, eyeing it proudly. He got away with only four paper cuts while making a dozen of them. "The story is true though, right? I mean, I read about it online."

                Bobby nods. "Yeah, it's true. But it ain't like there's a haunting or nothing. People just like to talk."

                Cas cocks his head to the side. "But why? Why talk about Hautley? There's so much more to talk about."

                Bobby huffs a little breath with a shrug. "I think people use Hautley as something to hold on to."

                "What do you mean?"

                Bobby rounds the counter and scoots next to Castiel, opening the cash register to begin counting out the drawer. "When people get real down around here, Hautley is someone they can think about to tell themselves that it's not _that_ bad, ya know? Nathan Hautley is like rock-bottom."

                Castiel hums in thought. "Well, he could also be an icon of second chances, don't you think?"

                Bobby pauses in his counting. "How do you reckon?"

                Castiel gathers all his roses in a pile. "Elsa Hautley gave him that second chance right? After he cheated on her the first time? Are you familiar with the story?"

                Bobby scoffs. "Son, I've been livin' here for thirty years. 'Course I'm familiar with the story."

                Castiel chuckles once. "Right," he says, "Well, Hautley screwed it up, his second chance. When Elsa gave him another chance, he cheated again. So maybe people can use his story as a lesson. Like if someone gives you a second chance, you don't waste it."

                Bobby sets a stack of one dollar bills aside, licking his thumb to start counting the fives. He pauses as he ponders that, and then turns his eyes on Castiel. "You're a smart kid, you know that?"

                Castiel blushes a little and looks down, shuffling his roses around. "I don't know about that," he says.

                "Hmph," is all Bobby says, or rather huffs. He finishes counting the rest of the bills in silence, and then glances at the clock. "I know it's a bit early, but you wanna get outta here and go on home son? I know it's a school night."

                Castiel glances up at him. "Sure," he says, "I mean, if it's alright?"

                Bobby gives him a tiny smile, but it's gentle. "Go on home," he nods, putting the money from the register in a leather zipper bag and closing the drawer. Castiel nods his thanks and stores the roses under the counter for now, grabbing the rest of his things and heading towards the door.

                "Jo tells me you're in theatre with her?" Bobby calls after him.

                Castiel glances back and gives him a nod, and Bobby smiles.

                "I think you'll like it," he says, "You'll make good friends in there. Keep ya away from those sumbitches that did that to your face."

                Castiel looks at him for a moment, and then smiles a crooked smile again. "Thank you Bobby."

                "No problem kid," the man says, waving him off before disappearing behind that Japanese curtain again into the back. "Flip the sign on your way out!" he calls out just before Castiel exits the store. Cas flips the sign hanging on the front door from **Open** to **Closed** , and then steps out of the store.

                As he's walking across the street to where he tethers his bike to a lamppost every time he works, he smells a skunky aroma floating through the air. He knows that smell well from going to school in the inner city where marijuana was practically a rite of passage among the students. Even Castiel tried it once or twice with what sorry excuses for friends he managed to pick up for a day or two at a time there.

                He glances up when he hears someone cat call from the alleyway beside the craft shop, and in the darkness it's hard to tell who it is.

                When someone whistles again, he quickly unchains his bike from the pole and climbs onto it.

                "Hey Castiel, where you going?" he hears a voice call out as he tries to balance his belongings against his chest, "Come back and hang out with us!"

                He recognizes the voice and shivers. It's Gordon, and he's not alone. _God_ , can Castiel ever get a break from these guys? They're the most persistent Cancers he's ever had to deal with. Small towns.

                "Come on Castiel, I have plenty to go around." Cas shivers when he hears this voice. It's Alastair - he'd recognize that nasally sneer anywhere. He pushes off from the curb, glancing once towards the alley, and sees the glowing tips of joints in the darkness, the faint silhouettes of the two of them barely visible in the darkness.

                Gordon yells something else that Castiel doesn't hear, taunting him as Castiel rides away, and he glances behind himself to see them poking their heads out from the alleyway. Thankfully, they don't follow him, disappearing back into the alleyway seconds later laughing and carrying on, smoking their weed. Castiel wonders if they live around here.

                He pushes his bike a little faster, afraid that they might decide to chase him. He doesn't think he can take any more today. His body is exhausted and he just wants to go home to his hopefully-warmer house and watch some stupid documentary with Anna and forget all about this day. Forget all about what it was like to feel flames eating through his clothes. Forget all about the way Dean's strong hands felt when they were tearing the flaming garment off of him.

                He hears one more cat call behind him, and he has to shake himself as he turns a corner. It's funny - he feels so much more scared of the Cancers right now, and he realizes it's because Dean Winchester isn't with them. He feels safer when Dean is there. And that's just all kinds of fucked up.


	7. First Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :) So this chapter is extra long. I was writing and I just kept writing and writing haha sorry it took a while, and sorry it's so long :)

**_NOVEMBER_ **

It's been a couple weeks since the incident with Castiel and the fire, and Dean has had some time to think. To be fair, thinking involves, for the most part, drinking a bottle or two of whatever he can get his hands on every day, but that's how Dean processes things. He learned from the best, after all.

                Through this extensive thinking, he's come to understand one thing: every time he so much as thinks about blue eyes, or dark hair, or any name even in the _vicinity_ of starting with a C, all he wants to do is keep drinking until he doesn't have the capacity to even lift a bottle anymore, let alone picture beautiful angels in his head.

                He's hung over for more than two weeks straight at school, so hung over that he doesn't really have the energy to participate when his friends pick on Castiel, or Barry Cook, or Krissy, or the newspaper geeks. He stands by and waits for it to end, and then they move on. His friends don't really notice. They don't say anything if they do. Alastair will rub Dean's shoulder and ask about his wellbeing, noting that he looks a little _green_ today, and Dean will bat his hand away and tell him not to fucking touch him, because he doesn't fucking _want_ Alastair's slimy hands on him. He's so done with it. So done with everything.

                He'll watch absently as Gordon shoves Barry down in the hallway, and Zach breaks the kid's glasses for the fifth time in a month. He stands in a daze as Crowley knocks a stack of papers out of Ed's hands while Alastair trips Harry and sends him sprawling into the lockers. He remains silent while they make fun of Krissy's hair and send her running in tears to the bathroom.  

                And he does nothing but stare at those big blue eyes while his friends torment Castiel in the hallways, tearing the cover off his textbook, stuffing him in his locker before he gets a chance to close it, knocking him to the pavement outside. Things don't escalate again to the level they did a couple weeks ago when Alastair set Castiel's coat on fire though, to Dean's relief. He's not sure he can handle that again. He's not sure _Castiel_ can handle that again.

                He sees Cas looking at him sometimes, mostly when he's sure Castiel thinks that Dean can't see him. Out of the corner of his eye, in math class, he'll see Castiel's face turned his direction, eyes fixated on his profile. And Dean will sit there stiffly, barely able to breathe, waiting for Cas to look away. But Castiel has this thing about staring, Dean's noticed. The kid just _stares_ , like he's seeing everything, like he's looking right into the very back of your brain and digging out all your secrets. His eyes carve you out raw.

                Dean hates him.

                Dean wants nothing more than to know him.

                He loathes Castiel.

                He wants Castiel.

                It's all so fucked up.

                He decides one night (because that's _all_ he does anymore at night, is think about Castiel Novak) as he's staring up at his _Return of the Jedi_ poster, that he's going to hurt Castiel. When Dean is angry, or conflicted, he breaks things. He hurts people. That's why it feels good to punch a freshman in the face, or pull some junior girl's hair in the hallway, or snap some poor kid's pencil in half in class, because that's how Dean works out his thoughts. It's horrible and wrong and just all kinds of cruel, but that's how Dean is. Like father, like son.       

                So he decides he's going to bully Castiel, bully him so profoundly that Dean's brain sorts itself out. He thinks maybe if he bullies Castiel enough, this feeling will go away, this strange fascination - nay, _obsession_ \- with the kid. He just wants to stop feeling this way. He wants to stop thinking about those swimming pools every time he picks up a drink. Sam has just about _had_ it with Dean blabbering about swimming pools while he's drunk. Sam has just about had it with Dean _being_ drunk in the first place.

                Dean gets his chance one morning in early November.

                He's alone in the downstairs hallway of the high school, his friends nowhere in sight. It's crowded down here since the ceilings are lower and the hallways are more narrow. This is the older part of the school, what used to be the main hallway before they added on the second floor of the high school to make the place look more modern. Students have nicknamed this hallway The Dungeon, because it's so confined. Even the lights are dimmer.

                Dean's locker just so happens to be down here, tucked away in a corner where not even the drug sniffing dogs venture. Dean doesn't use his locker much, but today he promised Sam that he'd bring home his biology textbook for the first time all year so Sam can help him catch up on all the homework he's missed all semester. The kid is a genius. He's in seventh grade and he's helping Dean catch up in college level biology. Dean is smart, yeah, but he's unmotivated. The fact that Sam not only understands what's going on in Dean's classes, but can also point him in the right direction, is just downright impressive.

                Thinking about his smart little brother put Dean in a better mood this morning. He's not as hung over today as he's been the past couple weeks, mostly due to the fact that John had raided Dean's liquor supply and stolen all his whiskey, leaving Dean with just a six pack of beer in the fridge to take the edge off last night.

                Dean is at his locker, stuffing his biology textbook into his backpack so he doesn't forget to bring it home for Sam, when he happens to glance up at the perfect moment. Across the crowded hallway, he spots Castiel pushing his way into the men's bathroom next to the stairwell. It's the only bathroom in The Dungeon, and hardly anyone uses it. Dean's walked in on more than one hookup in progress in there during his time at this high school, since it's mostly a vacant lavatory. It's the perfect privacy spot for those horny teenagers that can't seem to keep it in their pants long enough to find a sanitary place to fuck.

                Apparently Castiel didn't get the memo, even though the kid's been going here for almost two months now. Dean stares at the bathroom door as it sinks closed slowly, stares as he closes his locker. It's the passing period between fourth period and lunch right now, so he's not in a hurry. Other students rush by, on their way to the cafeteria or to The Docks to get in a smoke or two before Dean and his friends get out there and scare them all away.

                Dean swallows. He's half tempted to just walk away and go get lunch. But more than anything, he just wants to go in that bathroom with Castiel and sock the kid in the face. Punch him and get it over with. Punch him enough times to get rid of these feelings that Dean is trying so desperately to swallow down.

                He barely breathes as he finds his feet carrying him down the hallway before his brain even processes the fact that he's walking towards the bathroom. He pushes past other students, bumping shoulders with a few, but most of them dodge him swiftly. Dean has a reputation, after all. People don't get in his way at this school.

                When he reaches the bathroom, he stands there staring at the door for several seconds, debating whether or not he should do this. Somewhere deep in his sick psyche, he thinks he really does _need_ to do this, to just go in there and beat Castiel's face into a bloody pulp, because if he does that, these nagging feelings of _longinglustwant_ will go away.

                Yes. Yes, he'll do that. He'll do that, and get it over with. Right now. He'll do it.

                Blowing out all the breath in his lungs, he pushes through the bathroom door. Castiel is standing at the sinks washing his hands, and he doesn't look up as Dean enters the bathroom, which gives Dean a chance to just stare at the guy for a second. He's wearing loose jeans that look worn and weathered, and a _Colorful Colorado!_ t-shirt that's one size too big for him. Most of Castiel's clothes, Dean's noticed, are too big for the guy, like he found them at a garage sale, or like whoever bought them for him didn't know his actual size. His backpack is laying on the floor next to the sinks.

                The door drifts closed behind Dean - it's one of those doors that has a pressure point in the hinges that prevents it from slamming. He dares to look away from Castiel for just a brief second, turning and clicking the lock shut on the door so no one else comes in here. And maybe so Castiel can't get out quickly. Dean's going to need all the help he can get.

                He belatedly realizes that this is the first time it's just been he and Castiel. Usually when Dean is hurting Castiel, his friends are there hurting the kid too. This is the first time Dean and Castiel have found themselves alone in the same room together. This is the first time Dean has purposely gone out of his way to beat up Castiel all by himself. And that makes Dean nervous.

                He briefly considers turning around and fleeing the bathroom before Castiel notices he's there, but then Castiel shuts the sink off and turns around, his eyes falling upon Dean. And they just stare at each other for a second, Castiel's wet hands dripping crystal drops of water onto the floor.

                Castiel is the first to break the stare, to Dean's surprise. He watches as Cas silently reaches over and grabs a paper towel out of the dispenser, drying his hands and throwing it in the trash. Dean takes a few steps towards him as Castiel reaches down and scoops up his backpack, just holding it in one hand. He begins to walk towards the door behind Dean.

                Dean ignores the phantom pains in his side, the nagging _wrongwrongwrong_ screaming in his head, the lingering scent of burning hairspray, and he steps in Castiel's way when he tries to pass.

                "Going somewhere?" he hears himself say.

                Castiel doesn't look at him, at least not yet. He just looks off to the side, and he sighs once through his nose, looking tired and resigned. There are still dark bruises littering his face from the rocks.

                "Don't do this Dean," he says, and Dean blinks. Castiel has never called him by his name before. It sounds nice, in Cas's gravelly voice, and Dean has to suppress the shiver that tries to roll its way up his spine.

                And then he realizes. He and Castiel have _never_ spoken before. In all their encounters, they've never once said a word to each other. But somehow it doesn't feel weird. It just feels natural. Dean almost wishes they were speaking under different circumstances, but he has to quickly shake those thoughts off. He's not here to _get to know_ Castiel. He's here to beat the shit out of the kid and remind himself that he and Castiel will never happen. It will never be. So he needs to stop feeling this way.

                He can't think of anything to say, so he reaches down and tears Castiel's backpack out of his hand, tossing it aside, goading him on. Castiel sways a little as the bag is forcibly torn from his grasp, but he otherwise doesn't resist, watching the backpack skid to a halt in the corner of the bathroom near the urinals. Dean stares at him and waits, and Castiel's eyes slowly turn to meet his.

                They look at each other for an unnaturally long moment, and Castiel looks utterly exhausted. To be fair, Dean's pretty sure he doesn't look any better, seeing as he hasn't slept for more than four or so hours a night since Alastair lit Castiel on fire and jumpstarted Dean's nightmares again. He has nightmares of The Accident, and flashbacks, and it's all so exhausting, and his fucked up brain has chosen to blame Castiel for it.

                He watches Cas's throat ripple as he swallows, and then the blue eyed boy looks away once more, and makes to step around Dean again. This time when Castiel tries to pass, Dean grabs him, startling a gasp out of the kid, and Dean slams him back against the wall of the bathroom, hitting his head against the cheap crumbling drywall in the process. Dean's arm automatically presses down across Castiel's collarbone to hold him there, like Dean would with any other student, because any other student would be _fighting back_ at this point. But Castiel once again just stands there, helplessly pinned, staring at Dean, waiting for something else to happen.

                And before Dean can stop himself, he's snapping, "What the hell is wrong with you man?" Because _what the hell is wrong with this guy_? Why won't he fight back for fuck's sake?

                Castiel's eyebrows press together in confusion, and he cocks his head to the side a little. It's actually adorable, but Dean forces himself not to think about that too much. "What?" Castiel asks.

                Dean shakes his head. "Why do you let people just walk all over you, huh?" he hears himself asking, "Why the hell don't you fight back?"

                Wait. This isn't how this is supposed to be going. What is Dean doing? He's supposed to be throwing punches by now. Instead he's standing here having a conversation with the guy. His hands ball into fists as he watches Castiel's forehead smooth out in understanding, oblivious to the turmoil inside Dean's head.

                "You _want_ me to fight back?" Castiel utters skeptically, and Dean supposes it _is_ kind of unusual for a bully to want the victim to stand up to them. But what can he say? Dean's never been one for an easy fight. And Castiel all but _giving up_ every time Dean and his friends advance upon him, giving up even _before_ they start swinging, is a constant frustration to Dean.

                He grits his teeth. "I want to know why the hell you _don't_ ," he responds to Castiel.

                Cas just stares at him wonderingly, curiously. Dean absently notes how unbelievably _blue_ his eyes look in the fluorescent lights of the bathroom, like looking straight into a supernova. His mind begins to wander back to those swimming pools again, and he has to force himself to think of something else.

                "I don't like hurting people," Castiel replies finally, and if Dean doesn't know any better, he'd say Cas is hiding something. But he doesn't feel it worthwhile to prod.

                He shoves his arm harder against Castiel's collarbone, startling a stuttered gasp out of the kid. "There's a difference between hurting someone and self defense," Dean growls, and he has no idea why he's getting so worked up over this, "So fight back, you coward. Come on."

                Castiel swallows and Dean watches the corners of his jaw bulge a bit as he grits his teeth. "No."

                Dean glares. "You _want_ to have your ass handed to you?"

                Castiel sighs a bit, and Dean feels him sag a little against the wall. "No," he admits truthfully, "But if you and your friends feel the need to do so, because of some issue in your lives that causes you anger, then who am I to stand in your way? I'm here to help, and if that means taking a few punches, I'll accept that."

                Dean just stares at him. _Say what?_ What is this, anger management therapy? "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he demands.

                Castiel breathes out a quiet breath and closes his eyes for a second, maybe blinking away the ache in the back of his head where it hit the wall when Dean shoved him against it. "Dean, are you going to hit me?" he asks.

                Dean glares at him. He feels a constant, pressing _anger_ boiling low in his gut, ready to explode like a volcano at any second. He stares at Castiel's closed eyes, the tendons in his fist coiled and ready to strike. And he _wants_ to hit him. _God_ , he wants to hit him. Hit him right in his gorgeous face. But he _can't_. He freezes, right then and there. He has no idea how long he stands there, his face inches from Castiel's, so close Dean can feel Cas's every exhale against his lips.

                And when Castiel opens his eyes again and returns the gaze, Dean still can't bring himself to back away. If Castiel didn't have such a staring problem, Dean thinks perhaps the guy would have looked away by now. But he doesn't. He just _stares_.

                Castiel looks calm on the outside. His face is smooth, his eyes are empty, and he stares at Dean like he's just waiting for Dean to make the next move. But Dean's arm is pressed over Castiel's collarbone, and the palm of his hand is resting over Castiel's heart. Castiel is not calm. His heart is slamming against Dean's palm, faster with every second that they stand here. He's not calm. He's scared.

                And suddenly, Dean has an urge. It's not a new urge. Ever since he first saw Castiel, he's wondered what it would be like to kiss him. And now Castiel is _right here_ , right in front of him, his mouth inches away. And the desire to _kiss_ Castiel is beginning to overpower the desire to hit him.

                But he _can't_. He can't do that. And he can't hit him either. So what is he still doing here?

                "Dean?" Castiel asks, his voice low and soft, like he's talking to some skittish animal. His heartbeat is beginning to slow a little under Dean's palm. Dean looks up into Castiel's eyes when he says his name, and it's only then that he realizes he's been staring at Castiel's lips. Everything about this boy is strange. The shape of his face, the hypnotic allure of his eyes, the baby-soft paleness of his skin, even the oddly angular bow of his lips.

                Dean doesn't respond when Cas says his name, probably wondering what the hell Dean is waiting for, why he's just staring. Dean doesn't know _what_ to say, and he doesn't know what he's doing. His eyes leave Castiel's for just a moment, trailing up to his forehead where one of the rocks had hit Cas a couple weeks ago before Al set him on fire. There's still a pretty decent gash there, surrounded by green-yellow bruises.

                Before Dean knows what he's doing, his free hand comes up, and he's trailing the tip of his pointer finger over the gash above Castiel's brow. He sees Cas's eyes widen marginally, and the kid flinches a little as Dean touches the tender flesh around the healing wound. Beneath Dean's palm, Castiel's heart starts jack-hammering again, and there's a subtle intake of breath through those strange lips of his.

                Dean watches his finger trace the wound on Cas's head, not daring to look back down into Castiel's eyes. He doesn't know what he's doing, and he's afraid of what he might do if he looks into those eyes again.

                And then he gives in to the anger that's been boiling in his stomach from the very beginning. Abruptly, he yanks his finger away from Castiel's wounded forehead, balling his hand into a fist. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away a little as Dean reels back and throws the first punch.

                He feels his knuckles connect with the drywall next to Castiel's head, feels the plaster cutting into his skin. Castiel blinks his eyes open when he realizes that Dean didn't hit him, missed his face by mere inches.

                Dean isn't going to hit Castiel. He can't. _God dammit._

                "Fuck," he curses under his breath, tearing himself away from Castiel and yanking his fist out of the wall, turning and scrambling for the door. He forgets that he locked it when he first came in here, and fumbles a couple times before he gets it unlocked, throwing it open and leaving Castiel there stunned in the bathroom. He nearly collides with a group of girls sauntering down the hallway of The Dungeon, but he swiftly dodges them and makes for the exit, his hand beading with blood.

                He can't stay here.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel is dreaming. He must be. Things like that don't happen in real life, do they?

                He has no idea how long he stands there staring at the bathroom door, his heart throbbing in his chest, the sound of Dean's fist crunching through the wall beside his head ringing in his ears.

                It takes him a few minutes to remember how to breathe. And when he does, he sucks in a wild gasp, clutching his chest, bending over a bit and holding himself up by his knees.

                Of all the things that have happened to him this semester so far at the Cancer's hands, of all the things he's been through - from the fire, to the rocks, to being harassed outside of work - this right here, with Dean in the bathroom, has been the most bizarre.

                He's never had a bully just _stop_ mid-attack. Not without reason.

                He works to slow his breathing. The whole time Dean was there, Cas had been trying to keep his face neutral, calm, keep his breathing even, his voice from quavering. Because, truly, being cornered in an isolated place by one guy is actually vastly more terrifying than being publicly beaten in the hallways or outside. And being cornered in the bathroom by Dean had been _scary_.

                That is, until he'd seen the look in Dean's eyes. Frankly, the second Castiel had seen the way Dean was looking at him, he knew that Dean wasn't going to hit him...

                ...well, he was _ninety-five percent_ sure Dean wasn't going to hit him, anyway.

                That look in Dean's eyes...

                Damn it, Castiel has a serious problem.

                Sucking in a final breath, getting his wits back about him, he forces his Jell-O like legs to move. He crosses the bathroom and retrieves his backpack from under the urinals, hooking it onto his back and making for the door. He glances back once at the wall, eyeing the fist-sized hole Dean had just made. He hesitates at the door, because he's halfway certain he's going to open it and find Dean on the other side with his friends.

                But when he finally musters the nerve to open the door, there's no one there besides Victor sauntering down the hall with his keys jingling and his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like a regular prison guard. He looks up as Castiel comes out of the bathroom, and he surprises Cas by laughing a little.

                "I'm surprised you use that bathroom," Victor chuckles.

                Castiel glances up and down the hall briefly, checking to make sure none of the Cancers are there. "Why?"

                Victor stops walking. "I don't even think the janitors clean down here," he says, "No one uses that bathroom. It's like an unwritten rule of this school."

                Castiel adjusts his backpack on his shoulders, eyeing Victor. "How do you know that?"

                "I may not be a student, but I know what goes on here kid," Victor says, and then he glances at his watch, "Shouldn't you be at lunch? It's senior lunch period right now."

                Castiel gives him a half-smile, but his heart really isn't in it. "Headed there now," he replies, "See you later Victor."

                Victor gives him a nod and watches him as Cas turns and heads for the stairwell. A few seconds later, he hears Victor's keys jingling as he starts walking again.

                When Castiel reaches the cafeteria, Charlie and Gabe are already there, as well as Dorothy. She's been joining them for lunch lately, and Castiel thinks she and Charlie are probably going to end up dating soon. Charlie deserves it - Castiel is happy for her. But right now, he can't focus on that. He can't focus on much of anything.

                When he sits down after buying the first thing he grabbed - which happens to be a bag of hot Cheetos that he doesn't even like - his eyes immediately drift towards the window. Outside, the Cancers are all sitting at The Docks smoking and carrying on. But Dean isn't with them. Castiel forces himself to ignore the small stab of disappointment he feels when he doesn't see Dean there, because he's come to really enjoy watching Dean during lunch. Maybe that's creepy - but he doesn't really care. This probably means Dean won't be in math class later either, which is also disappointing.

                Castiel has a problem.

                His friends chat away lunch, and every couple minutes Castiel will make some small noise of acknowledgment so they don't ask him why he's not listening. His eyes keep drifting towards the window, like they always do, and he rubs his forehead more than once, trying to rub away the feeling of Dean's fingers tracing his wound.

                He spends the rest of the day like this, in a sort of dazed state. Nobody has ever affected him like this before. Nobody has ever made him literally mentally check out of life. He doesn't hear or see anything in any of his classes, doesn't process anything. All he can hear is the sound of a fist smashing through drywall, and the rough growl of Dean's voice. All he can see are confused, angry green eyes, and the way Dean had stared at his lips this morning like he wanted to devour them.

                Dean hadn’t hurt him in the bathroom. He _hadn’t_ _hurt him._ They were right there, and Dean had a perfect shot, and he’d punched the wall instead. He’d barely laid a finger on Castiel apart from shoving him against the wall. And Cas is _not_ going to admit how hot that was. He shivers just thinking about it.

                He has theatre club that afternoon, and Pamela has to snap in his face more than once to get him to pay attention. He barely registers her announcing that auditions for Marv's play (which was unanimously agreed upon by the whole company) begin tomorrow. Castiel knows he's auditioning for a leading part as a high school bully who ends up being a good guy, which is just painfully ironic.

                Charlie and Gabe begin to notice how distracted he is when Charlie tries to introduce him to a boy Alfie in the theatre club as a potential love interest and Castiel can barely hold a conversation with the guy. He's cute in a dorky way, but he's not _Dean_. Their introduction is awkward and brief and borderline painful. Castiel is an awkward guy, sure, but he's not _this_ awkward usually.

                So when theatre club ends and Castiel saunters outside and heads for the woods to go home, Gabriel and Charlie corner him near the dumpsters right outside the theatre exit.

                "Alright, spill," Charlie demands, bopping him once on the head, "What happened?"

                Castiel looks between the two of them. "What do you mean?"

                Gabe scoffs. "Oh I don't know _Frankenstein_ ," he says, "You wanna tell us why you've been basically catatonic all day, or are we gonna have to get the Cancers to beat it out of you?"

                Charlie punches Gabe. "That's so not funny!" she scolds. Gabe snickers.

                Castiel bites his lip and sneaks a glance over their shoulders towards The Docks. Dean isn't there, just like he wasn't there at lunch, just like he wasn't in math class. Cas's first instinct is to lie to his friends. He doesn't want to tell them about this. He doesn't allow himself to have feelings for anyone, and if it happens (and it rarely does), he keeps it to himself and lets it go away on its own. Lets it run its course. He's never liked anyone this much. And it scares him so much he doesn't want to say it out loud. But Gabe and Charlie are his friends. Real friends this time.

                So he grows a pair and tears his eyes away from The Docks. "I have a problem," he says.

                Gabe and Charlie both just stare at him, waiting. But he freezes up.

                "Cas, you look constipated," Charlie says.

                "He always looks constipated," Gabe points out.

                "Is that it?" Charlie asks, "Are you backed up? I have prune juice." She begins to dig through her backpack.

                "Why in God's name do you have prune juice with you?" Gabe asks.

                "My mom's a hippie, it's like all she drinks besides-"

                "I have a crush on Dean Winchester," Castiel blurts out quickly, cutting Charlie off, and then he clamps his mouth shut the second he says it.

                Gabriel and Charlie both stop and look at him, their eyebrows shooting towards the sky. They say nothing for a good ten seconds or so, and Castiel just collapses against the side of the dumpster, breathing out a heavy breath and running his hand through his messy hair. _Wow_ , that actually feels good to say out loud. He should try this whole sharing and caring thing more often.

                When Charlie starts laughing, Cas and Gabe both look at her in confusion. "It's about time you admit it!" Charlie giggles, "You've done nothing but stare at him every day at lunch since the first time we met you!"

                Castiel blushes in embarrassment. So much for subtlety. He thought he was being a little less obvious about it. "No, no, this is a bad thing," Castiel groans, hiding his face in his hands, "I can't have a crush on Dean."

                "Damn straight you can't!" Gabe agrees, "The guy is a douche!"

                "I don't think it's so bad," Charlie pipes in, "I mean you can't help who you like.  I know we warned you about Dean before, but maybe things can change."

                Gabe snorts. "Cas liking Dean is like borderline masochism! I mean look at Cas's face!"

                Charlie eyes the bruises on Castiel's forehead and jaw, and she grimaces. "Maybe Dean will come around?"

                "Charlie, it's Stockholm Syndrome!" Gabriel argues, "Cas liking Dean is Stockholm Syndrome!"

                "Now that's just a little dramatic, don't you think?" Charlie snorts.

                "No, he's right," Castiel interjects, and they both look at him. Castiel swallows and fights the urge to look over at The Docks again. No matter how many times he looks, Dean isn't going to magically appear today. "You guys need to help me. I can't like him. I need to know how to stop."

                Charlie and Gabriel exchange a glance. "You could try to go on a date with Alfie?" Charlie suggests, "He's had his eye on you for a while."

                Gabe laughs. "Cas kind of screwed the pooch on that one today, didn't he? You were so awkward bro, you scared the kid off."

                Castiel grimaces. "Sorry," he mutters sheepishly.

                Charlie makes a little noise in the back of her throat, pondering what they could do. They all stand there for a good minute or two just staring off into space with pursed lips, thinking. Castiel is still reeling from what happened with Dean in the bathroom this morning, so he struggles to keep his mind on point. He keeps getting distracted remembering the way Dean was looking at his lips. _God,_ why does this have to be so hard? Why does it have to be like this?

                "Alright kiddo, you know what?" Gabe says, interrupting Castiel's newest daydream, "We should draw up a plan. A strategy for how you can forget about Dean."

                Charlie ponders that for a moment, and then a smile spreads across her face. "Project Forgetting About Dean!"

                Castiel chuckles a little. "Is that what we're calling it?"

                "Project FAD for short," she nods.

                Gabe sucks his lips into his mouth, thinking for a moment, and then he nods too. "I like that," he says, "Project FAD. It sounds like a civil rights movement or something."

                Castiel snorts and shakes his head. "Do you really think this will work?"

                "Oh it better work," Gabe says, "You can't have a crush on Dean Winchester. It's downright unhealthy."

                Charlie looks like she wants to say something, but she bites her tongue. Castiel is tempted to go along with what Charlie first said, that Dean may come around, that it's not such a bad thing that Castiel has a crush on him. But he can't agree with that. Not after everything Dean's done in the past couple months. Not after everything his friends have done. Gabriel is right. It's masochism.

                "Do you guys want to come over?" Cas asks them. He needs a distraction for the evening. If he goes home and sits there alone with Anna, all he's going to do is think about Dean and the way his fingers felt trailing over Castiel's forehead this morning. And he can't sit there and think about that if he's expected to get over this stupid crush.

                "Hell yeah!" Gabe says, clapping Cas on the shoulder, "Did Missouri make any more of those casseroles with the quail eggs? I need my fix."

                Cas chuckles a little. "I think I might have some leftover in the fridge."

                Gabe grins in triumph, and the three of them start their saunter towards the woods. Charlie slings her arm over Cas's shoulders. "It'll be okay buddy," she says, "We've all had crushes like this."

                Cas gives her a half-hearted smile, and makes it a point to very deliberately _not_ look over at The Docks again. He knows Dean isn't there, but if Project FAD is going to work, he can't continuously look at places where Dean usually is. He supposes he'll have to sit with his back to the windows during lunch from now on so he's not tempted to stare at Dean then too. And maybe he'll switch spots in math class to somewhere where he can't see Dean.

                This is going to be a lot harder than he thought.

                They chatter about anything and everything on their way through the woods to Castiel's house. Cas tries to engage in the conversation as much as possible, even if he's just blabbering about nothing, because if he stops talking, he's going to think about Dean again.

                They stop by Missouri's house to pick up Anna, and Missouri answers the door covered in flour. She ushers them inside, insisting that they stay for dinner since Anna is helping her cook while Missouri teaches her Latin.

                "How the hell do you know Latin?" Gabe laughs, impressed.

                "Boy, I know all kinds of things," Missouri replies, taking their backpacks from them and nodding her head at their shoes as a silent reminder to take them off. The three of them kick their shoes off and follow her into her tiny kitchen. Charlie and Castiel have to duck under the doorway, but it's the perfect height for Gabriel. He ducks anyway, pretending he's taller, and Charlie pokes fun at him while they accept cups of some sort of hot tea Missouri brewed up out of her many herbs. Castiel warms his hands on the mug and sticks his tongue out at Anna when she makes a face at him. She's covered in powder too.

                "What are you guys making?" Charlie asks, eyeing a plastic container of candied fruit chunks on the counter.

                "German stollen," Anna replies, punching down a big ball of dough in a bowl and folding in a handful of walnuts.

                "For dinner?" Gabe asks, stealing a candied fruit and popping it in his mouth while Missouri's back is turned.

                "Dessert," she says, "Anna, Jesse, and I made pastrami for dinner."

                Charlie makes a _yummy_ sound, sipping her tea. She and Gabe have met Missouri a few times already, and they took a liking to her as quickly as Castiel and Anna did. There's just something about the woman that draws people in. She's unlike anyone Castiel has met before.

                Jesse comes wandering into the kitchen then dragging a rubber chicken behind himself on the floor. Its head is hanging on by a thread. "Mama, Plastic got caught in the shower drain," he says, holding up the nearly-headless rubber chicken to show Missouri.

                "You named your rubber chicken Plastic?" Gabe asks, "I already like this kid."

                "Now how'd he get caught in the shower drain?" Missouri asks, coming forward and taking the chicken, examining the tiny piece of rubber left holding its head in place.

                Jesse shrugs, putting on his best sad puppy face, trying to hide the fact that he was probably setting up another one of his pranks when the chicken's head fell off. Missouri rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "I'll put his head back on for you tomorrow," she says, "As long as you come in here and help with the stollen."

                Jesse's sad puppy face turns into a smile, and he climbs up onto the counter next to Anna, punching down the stollen with her.

                They eat dinner in the living room under the rabbit foot collection, chatting and laughing about everything random, and for a while Castiel forgets about Dean Winchester. Gabriel and Jesse find common ground in their mutual love for playing pranks on people, and Jesse ends up dragging him back to his room to show him his whole collection of itching powder and fake dog poop and costume blood.

                Charlie pulls out a notebook and she and Castiel make a bullet point list of goals for Project FAD, most of which involve Castiel _not_ under _any_ circumstances being allowed to look at Dean at all. It's almost like Cas is a drug addict and has Gabe and Charlie as sponsors. The whole thing is making him a little nervous. But what's making him more nervous is the fact that he has these feelings for Dean. Because that's very bad. He can't have feelings like this for a bully.

                By the time they work their way through the pastrami and German stollen, they're all stuffed, and Charlie and Gabe both get phone calls from their mothers telling them it's time to get their asses home. Castiel watches them talking with their mothers on the phone, Gabe arguing and Charlie laughing, and he feels a stab of longing in his gut. Castiel and his own mother may not be terribly close, but he still misses her sometimes. And tonight, with Missouri acting as motherly as she is, and Gabe and Charlie both getting concerned phone calls from their own mothers, Castiel misses his mom.

                Or maybe he just misses the idea of her. Either way.

                He and Anna wait until Gabe and Charlie are picked up by their parents, and then they say goodbye to Missouri and Jesse and thank Missouri for dinner before heading back to their own quiet house. The house is cold when they get inside. The heater has been working on and off lately, breaking for a few days, and then kicking on for the next few, only to break again. Anna groans and hugs herself when they get inside, and she pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders.

                "I miss Arizona," she grumbles, and saunters into the living room to watch another documentary. Castiel watches after her for a moment with a sigh, vowing to himself that he's going to sit with her in a little while and make her teach him all the words she learned in Latin. He feels bad for Anna sometimes. She's lonely.

                Rubbing his hands together and blowing into them to try and warm them up, he wanders upstairs and into his room, shutting the door behind himself. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and goes over to his nightstand, pulling out the folded piece of paper his mom left him last time they'd been together before she'd set off for Central America for her anthropological study. He doesn't remember exactly where she is, but he remembers her telling him it's only an hour or two ahead there, and she'd given him this paper with the phone number she could be reached at.

                He stares at the phone number scrawled on the paper for a few minutes. He wants to call her, but he's not really sure what they'll talk about. He and his mother don't have much in common. He almost puts the number and his phone away and goes back downstairs, but then he thinks of Gabe and Charlie talking with their mothers earlier, and that longing in his chest comes back.

                With a sigh, he dials the number and hesitates only briefly before pressing **_Send_**. It rings nearly a dozen times, but his mother had told him that it might take longer to connect with long distance calls like this, so he waits, sitting stiffly on his bed. When she finally answers, it's with a very professional "Naomi Novak speaking."

                Castiel doesn't say anything at first, because he thinks that it's her answering machine for a second, she sounds so mechanical. But when there's nothing but silence, he clears his throat a little. "Mom?"

                "Castiel? Why are you calling this late? Don't you have school tomorrow?" she asks, and he hears rustling around like she's climbing out of bed. Castiel thinks he hears another voice in the background for a moment, but he must have imagined it. His mother is alone on her study.

                "Yes, I do," he replies, "I just wanted to call. It's been a while."

                Naomi hums a bit on the other end. "Yes it has," she agrees, "But you shouldn't be calling now. It's late, and I need to be up early."

                Castiel swallows, the images of Charlie and Gabe talking to their own mothers on the phone flickering and fading from his mind. He has no idea why he thought calling his mother would be anything like that.

                "Sorry," he apologizes, "I should've waited. I just wanted to say hello."

                She sighs on the other end. "It's alright, it was good to talk to you Castiel. I have to go now."

                There's a sudden voice in the background again, this time louder. A man's voice. Castiel thought he'd imagined it before, but no, that's definitely a voice. "Who is that?" he asks.

                "No one, I'm alone," his mother replies tersely, "I have the TV on. I'll be home for Thanksgiving Castiel. Goodbye now."

                Before he has a chance to say anything else, the line goes dead. Castiel pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it. "Bye," he mutters, clicking it off and tossing it on his nightstand. _Well that was weird_. He could have sworn he heard a voice.

                "Castiel!" Anna calls from downstairs, "The TV stopped working!"

                Cas runs his hand through his hair and sighs, standing and heading back downstairs. He tries for a good twenty minutes to fix the TV, which is just a blue screen all of the sudden, but with no luck.

                He promises Anna he'll call Kevin to come look at it tomorrow, and Anna grumbles a little before heading up to bed early for the night. Cas tucks her in and gives her an extra blanket from the closet since it's November and the East Coast nights are getting colder and colder.

                He takes a long shower before laying down in his own bed, shivering from his wet hair. He pulls out the Project FAD list he and Charlie had made earlier and reads over it a few times. If he doesn't distract himself with this, all he'll think about is the way Dean's hands felt on him this morning. And he can't think about that. He can't.

 

*       *       *

 

                There are two packs' worth of cigarette butts littering the roof of his house by the time Dean climbs down that afternoon and goes inside. He'd come straight home from school after the incident in the bathroom with Castiel, and climbed up onto the roof to smoke his feelings away. His stomach is rolling with a bit of nausea from all the cigarettes, but at least it's a distraction from the ache in his chest he feels every time he thinks about Castiel.

                He's done nothing but sit there and think about Cas all afternoon again. And he has to admit it to himself - he can't deny it anymore.

                He has a crush on Castiel Novak.

                He has a crush on Castiel Novak, and that's exactly the reason why he can't stop bullying him. Because he _can't_ have a crush on Castiel. It goes against everything Dean has established for himself this semester. He doesn't date losers, and frankly...Castiel is too good for him. And there's no _way_ Castiel would _ever_ want someone like Dean. Especially not after everything Dean and his friends have done to Cas this year. And especially not after that absolute _disaster_ of an encounter in the bathroom this morning.

                Dean groans to himself as he walks into his house, running a hand roughly over his face, his fingers scraping over his stubble that he really needs to shave soon. Sam is sitting in the kitchen again, working on homework, but so far John hasn't shown up yet, which is nice.

                "Hey," Sammy greets, "I didn't know you were home."

                "Just got here," Dean lies, checking the fridge for a beer. There's nothing in there, and Dean frowns. He doesn't have any alcohol left in his stash.

                "Dean?" Sam asks.

                Dean sighs and closes the fridge, cringing at the rank smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothing. "Yeah?"

                Sam is staring at him, eyes wide, a signature puppy dog look that always makes Dean want to melt and roll his eyes all at the same time. "Can you not drink tonight?"

                Dean stares at his little brother. _Damn it_. Dean's been a horrible brother the past couple weeks. He knows it. Drinking and making an idiot of himself. All because of Castiel and his stupid big blue eyes. He needs to get over this shit fast.

                "Sure Sammy," he says, giving his brother a little smile, "I won't drink tonight."

                Sam returns his smile half-heartedly, and then goes back to working on whatever homework he's doing at the moment. Dean saunters over to the table and plops down next to Sam, peering over his shoulder briefly to see what he's working on. It's some sort of science lab about different types of cold medicine. _Boring_.

                Dean reaches over and steals a piece of paper out of Sam's notebook, plucking the little jagged edges off where the paper connected to the spirals. He folds the paper in half, and then in half again, staring at it. How does Castiel always make those cool things out of origami? Dean can't even fold the paper straight. He sees Cas in the cafeteria all the time with his theatre friends, folding this and that with colorful paper. Dean's seen him make cubes, and angels, and flowers, and even little bumblebees out of paper. It's effortless for him, but as Dean stares at the paper in his hands, he has no idea how Cas does it.

                Dean ends up just rolling and unrolling the corners of the paper, lost in thought.

                "Did you bring your biology book home?" Sam asks.

                _Right_. Dean almost forgot about Sam helping him with his biology homework. "Yeah," he replies, "It's in my room."

                "I'm almost done with this, and then I can help you work on that," Sam says, eyeing the paper in Dean's hands as it becomes more and more wrinkled.

                "Thanks Sammy," Dean says, sighing and tossing the piece of paper onto the table, scooting back his chair and standing. He walks down the hall to his room, digging in his backpack for his biology book. He sits down on his mattress and flips through the book for a bit. He already knows most of this stuff to be honest, but Sam is the brains of the family and he helps Dean with organizing his assignments. Dean is already weeks behind in his work, and it's only halfway through the semester. So much for graduating.

                As he sits there, he suddenly hears the front door slam open, so hard it hits the wall next to it. Dean looks up as he hears someone stumble into the house down the hall.

                "Sam Winchester, what the hell're you doin' here? Why aren't you at school?" he hears John snap from the kitchen.

                _Crap_. John's in one of _those_ drunken moods tonight. This never ends well.

                "Dad it's almost six," he hears Sam say in the kitchen, "I got off school hours ago."

                "Don't fuckin' lie to me boy," John slurs low and dangerous.

                Dean jumps up from his mattress, dropping his biology book on the floor and leaving his room. When he gets to the kitchen, John is standing over the table, and Sam is staring resolutely down. He knows how this is going to end too - he's smart enough not to say anything.

                "Dad?" Dean says when he gets in there, and John looks up at him, a watery anger in his eyes, "Look at the clock. It's almost six. Sam's right."

                John glares at Dean, but he surprisingly obeys and turns, squinting at the clock on the oven. He grumbles under his breath and stumbles over to the oven to get a better look. Dean and Sam exchange a glance, and Dean nods his head towards the hallway, indicating for Sam to get out of there. Sam begins to gather up his books.

                "Leave them," Dean says, quietly enough for only Sam to hear, and Sam looks up at him once more before swallowing and standing, disappearing down the hall without his school stuff. Dean looks back at John as his father straightens up, apparently satisfied that the time is really almost six. He doesn't even look back at Dean before going to the fridge and yanking it open. He pulls it open so roughly a bottle of Tabasco sauce topples out of the door and clatters to the floor, breaking into several pieces.

                "Fuckin' piece a shit," John curses under his breath, stooping down to pick up the shards. He loses his balance in his drunken state and falls forward a little, hitting his head on the freezer. It would have been funny, watching this all happen, if Dean wasn't so used to this shit by now.

                He walks forward towards John. "Dad, let me," he says, stooping down and gently pushing his father's hands away from the sharp glass and spilled hot sauce, "Why don't you go watch TV or something?"

                John ignores him and continues trying to rake the hot sauce up with his fingertips. Dean works around his hands, picking up the bigger shards of glass so his father doesn't cut himself. John glances into the fridge.

                "Dean, did you drink all the beer?" he demands, reaching in with a hot sauce covered hand and shoving things aside, making a mess of the fridge, searching for the six pack Dean drank last night.

                Dean grits his teeth. This isn't going to end well. "Yeah, sorry," he replies, "I'll pay you back."

                Without warning, John turns and his fist connects with Dean's face. Dean cries out, more out of surprise than anything else, falling to the side with the impressively hard hit and landing sprawled in the most undignified way on the floor. His face lands in his open palm, and the handful of glass from the hot sauce bottle slices into his chin and lip. _Fuck_. John usually waits a few minutes before throwing punches.

                "What'd I tell you 'bout fuckin' drinkin' ya little shit?" John snaps, pushing himself up and kicking the remaining shards of glass on the floor at Dean before slamming the fridge shut, "Clean this mess up."

                His father goes stalking unsteadily out of the room, and a few seconds later, Dean hears his door slam down the hall. There are a few more crashes from inside his bedroom as he probably throws things around. John gets angry sometimes, for no reason. It never really ends well for anyone.

                Dean blinks a few times, groaning, shaking away the dizziness vibrating through his head from the punch. He sees drops of blood falling from his lip and chin onto the floor from where the glass cut his face, mixing with the hot sauce in an orange-red puddle on the linoleum. He can taste the iron tang of blood running into his mouth from his cut lip. _Damn it_.

                He pushes himself shakily to his feet, dropping the bloody glass pieces in his hand on the floor. He has to catch himself on the counter as a slips a little in some Tabasco when he tries to take a step. Sam chooses that moment to peer around the corner, right as Dean is spitting blood out of his mouth into the sink.

                "Dean?" Sam calls, his voice quiet and sounding about half his age, "You okay?"

                Dean spits again. "I'm fine Sammy," he grumbles, prodding at his quickly swelling cheekbone. He wonders if this is what Castiel feels like every time Dean and his friends hit him. "Can you hand me the dish towel?"

                Sam's footsteps are practiced and nearly inaudible as he makes his way across the crackling linoleum, pulling the dish towel off the handle of the oven and handing it to Dean. Dean presses it to his sliced up chin and lip before Sam can see the damage. He doesn't think he'll need stitches this time. They're not that deep, but they burn like a son of a bitch with all the hot sauce that got in them.

                Sam takes his arm and pulls him towards the hallway. "Come on, let's go do your biology."

                Dean huffs a little, looking down at his brother, and then he loops his arm around the kid's shoulders, ruffling his hair with his free hand. "My book's in my room. Meet me there," he says, "And grab your stuff out of here before you go. I don't want it getting ruined."

                Sam nods and walks over to the table to gather up his stuff. Dean wanders back to the only bathroom, glancing at his dad's door where he hears John cursing under his breath and pacing. He slips into the bathroom and doesn't even dare look at himself in the mirror. He'll hate what he sees anyway - it won't help anything. He drops the dish towel on the counter and splashes water over the cuts on his face, washing away the hot sauce, hissing at the sting.

                He grabs a washcloth and holds that to his face for a few minutes until the wounds stop bleeding, and then tosses that aside as well, turning away from the mirror and walking to his room. Sammy is already sitting on his bed flipping through his biology textbook, marking things with sticky note tabs, and Dean gives him a little smile as he closes and locks the bedroom door.

                When Dean sits down next to Sam, Sam stops marking the pages for a moment, looking at Dean's face. He reaches up and takes his chin, tilting it to the side to get a better look at the cuts and his swelling cheekbone. He swallows. "Sorry I made him mad," Sam says.

                Dean ruffles his hair. "You didn't make him mad. Jack Daniel's did."

                Sam purses his lips with a sigh and released Dean's chin, looking back down at his book. Dean pulls out a list of all the assignments he's missed that Sam made him get from his teacher, and they spend the next few hours trying to catch Dean up in his class. At one point, they hear John come out of his bedroom again and stumble into the kitchen. Dean grits his teeth as he realizes he didn't clean up the Tabasco and blood all over the kitchen floor, but John doesn't come bang on the door or anything. They hear him sit down at the kitchen table eating something.

                Sam's stomach growls right on cue, and Dean grins down at him, ignoring the sting in his lip from the cuts. "Hungry?"

                Sam swallows and eyes the door, and then shakes his head no. Dean narrows his eyes at him.

                "Yeah you are, Grumbles. Your stomach is singing us the song of its people," he says, rolling his eyes and pushing himself to his feet, making for the door.

                "Dean, wait," Sam says, and Dean turns back to Sam's pleading face, "Don't go out there, please. I'm not that hungry, let's just leave dad alone."

                Dean swallows as he looks at Sam, and then he looks back at the door, staring at it. After a moment, with a hard sigh, he turns and sits back down on the mattress next to Sam. Both of them ignore Sam's growling stomach for the rest of the night. And when Dean's stomach starts protesting how empty it is, they ignore that too.

                It's late by the time Sam curls up and falls asleep against the wall without any dinner, and Dean packs up his school books. That may very well have been the longest time he's ever spent on his homework in one sitting in his whole life.

                Dean hears John go stumbling back to his room shortly after, and Dean raises one arm, sniffing his armpit and cringing at the ripe stench. He needs a shower. He doesn't know how Sam stands being around him sometimes.

                He waits a few more minutes until he's sure John won't come out of his room again, and then crosses to the door. He opens his bedroom door as quietly as he can, yanking it a little quicker at the part where it creaks really loudly so the creak doesn't get drawn out.

                He musters enough courage to look at himself in the mirror when he gets to the bathroom and locks the door. His face is a fucking mess. His cheekbone is swollen and beginning to glaze over in a dark bruise. Even when John is drunk - or maybe _especially_ when John is drunk - his punches are impressively hard. Dean's chin and part of his cheek have three decent sized gashes on them from the glass, and there's a slice right up over his lips like the Joker from Batman.

                Dean stares at his fucked up face for a long moment, and then tears his eyes away in disgust. He turns and twists on the shower, and it takes a few minutes for the water to heat up. Shedding his clothes, he steps in and pulls the plain clear plastic curtain shut, sliding under the water and closing his eyes as it pours over him. He ignores the sting as the water washes over the cuts on his face, and scrubs his hair clean with the cheap store-brand shampoo he gets at the grocery store when he goes for eggs and bread every month or so. They can't really afford much better in the way of hair products. Dean had a girlfriend several years ago who let him use her shampoo, and his hair was so shockingly soft and fluffy he couldn't stop running his fingers through it.

                It doesn't take long for his mind to wander back to Castiel. It never takes long. When there's nothing else to distract him, Castiel automatically fills in that space in his mind. And thoughts of Castiel, plus warm water, equals a bad reaction.

                Dean opens his eyes and looks down at his dick, which is now half-hard and growing fast. He just stares at it as he washes the shampoo out of his hair, willing it to go down. Because, _no_ , he _cannot_ start jacking off to thoughts of Cas. If he starts doing that, then he'll start thinking about Cas more, and then he'll never be able to get over this stupid crush. He can't allow himself to lust after a guy he can never have. It hurts too much.

                He stares at his dick for a good five minutes, but it only gets harder, until it's settled at a proud curve up towards his belly.

                _God dammit._

                ”Fuck," Dean curses under his breath. His erection is not going anywhere.

                Gritting his teeth, he reaches down and wraps his hand around his cock, squeezing it once in a last ditch effort to make it wilt, but that only causes a bead of precome to leak from the tip. Dean groans before he can stop himself, and then clamps his lips together to keep from making noise. Their house is small, and the walls are thin. The last thing he needs is Sam or John hearing him jerking off in the bathroom that they all share.

                He moves his hand up his dick, passing over the head and rubbing his thumb over the slit before moving his fist back down. He sets up a steady pace, leaning against the wall as his legs start to tremble. _Damn it, fuck_. He can't stop his mind from wandering to Castiel, and when he's this turned on, he's not strong enough to fight it. Before long, he's picturing Castiel naked beneath him, miles of pale skin stretched out, his hands running down that smooth stomach. He sees Castiel big gorgeous blue eyes staring at him, watching him as he comes undone.

                He imagines what it would be like to sink into Castiel's heat, fuck him slow and gentle at first, and then hard and fast the longer it goes on, until Castiel is a writhing sweating mess beneath him. Dean's hand moves faster and faster along his shaft, and he has to bite his forearm as he gives one last squeeze at the sensitive area beneath the head. He comes in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and the moan he muffles by sinking his teeth into his arm sounds suspiciously like _Cas_. His come shoots in ropes across the wall, and Dean huffs out a loud gasp, his eyes falling closed as he runs his hand up and down his dick a few more times, milking the last of his orgasm.    

                He leans against the wall for several moments, catching his breath, and when he comes down from it, he's hit instantly with a wave of self loathing. _What the hell is wrong with him_? He can't even control his own dick enough to _not_ jerk off to thoughts of Castiel? With a disgusted shake of his head, he cleans himself and the shower wall off quickly, scrubbing his skin raw, almost scraping his skin off in some places because he's suddenly so angry with himself. This needs to stop. This can't go on anymore. He can't like Castiel. He can't.

                His skin is red and just about as clean as it can possibly get when he finally gets out of the shower, and he throws on a fresh pair of boxer shorts, wandering back down the hall to his room, ignoring how loose and pliant his body feels post-climax. He drops his dirty clothes in his hamper and looks over at Sam curled against the wall still asleep. Running his hand through his wet hair, trying to swallow back the anger at himself for now, his heart pounding furiously, teeth marks on his forearm, he walks over to his bed and scoops Sam up. The kid doesn't even wake up as Dean picks him up and carries him next door to his own room.

                He lays Sam down against the wall the way he likes to sleep, and then lays down next to him, putting a pillow in between them so Sam doesn't roll over onto him in his sleep like he's prone to do sometimes. Dean will sleep in here tonight again, just in case John decides to get difficult.

                Only it turns out, Dean doesn't sleep at all. He lays there on his back, staring up at the glowing stars and moons and planets on Sam's ceiling, and he thinks. He can't stop it. He can't stop his brain from thinking about Cas. He feels guilty and dirty and awful. _He just jerked off to thoughts of Castiel Novak_. And it was one of the most satisfying spank sessions he's ever had. All two minutes of it. What the fuck?

                He lays there for the entire night just thinking. When the sun starts to come up, and Dean's stomach growls particularly loud, he tries to forget about Castiel long enough to whip up breakfast for he and Sammy. He throws together some eggs and hash browns, and cleans up the blood and hot sauce and glass still littering the kitchen floor in the process. He brings Sam breakfast in bed, and they sit there in relative silence, both exhausted in the early morning.

                Sam stares tiredly at the necklace he gave Dean that Dean never takes off, hanging around his neck and against his bare chest. His eyes skip from that up to Dean's face, where the cuts on his chin and lip feel stiff as they scab over, and the bruise on his cheekbone is tender, making it somewhat painful to chew. Dean's used to this sort of ache though, so he ignores it.

                "You gonna be okay?" Sam asks. He's referring to the wounds, Dean is sure, but Dean still takes the question as meaning more. He stares at Sam for a minute, chewing a bite of hash browns thoughtfully, and then swallows. He thinks of his idiot father down the hall, and the feeling of Castiel's beating heart under his palm in the bathroom at school yesterday, and the stupid nagging crush he has on this person he can never have. He gives Sam a weak smile.

                "Yeah, I'll be fine," he lies.


	8. Out Of My Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter ended up being even longer than the last one, and I get the feeling that the next chapter is going to be super long too. Sorry to all those who prefer shorter chapters! When I write, I get carried away sometimes, so I'm sorry this chapter is so long! I hope it's not a problem :) Oh, and sorry if there are any typos too :)

                A few days after his phone call with his mother, Castiel is distracted. He’s been distracted a lot lately, with Dean, and school, and now that man’s voice he heard in the background of his mother’s call. He _knows_ he heard a voice, and it wasn’t the TV like Naomi claimed before abruptly hanging up.

                He’s probably over-thinking it. It could have been anyone – maybe a coworker of his mother’s, or someone she’s met in Central America while working on her study. But then why would she claim she was alone, when Cas clearly heard a voice? Why did his married mother have a man in her room?

                His head aches the more he thinks about it, so he tries not to, but he can’t help it.

                He and Kevin are sitting in the library at school now during a free period, working on homework, and Kevin seems to notice Castiel’s distraction. He tosses a gum wrapper at Cas’s face to get his attention and leans in so he doesn’t speak loud enough for the librarian to yell at him.

                “What’s eating you man?” he asks, “You’ve been staring off into space for the last ten minutes.”

                Castiel blinks at him and then shakes his head a little. “I’m just tired,” he says, mustering up a small smile.

                Kevin eyes him. “You sure?” he asks, “You seem a little off. Are the Cancers bothering you again?”

                Cas snorts a little. “They never _stop_ bothering me,” he replies, “But that’s not it. I’m alright, really. I’m just tired.”

                Kevin hums a little, biting the inside of his cheek as he eyes Castiel. “You wanna get everyone together tonight at your house? We could cook dinner and watch some movies or something.”

                The corner of Cas’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Really?”

                Kevin chuckles. “Yeah,” he says, “I mean, it’s the least we can do. It’ll get your mind off of _being tired_ and all that.” He makes air-quotes around _being tired_ , clearly calling Cas out on his bullshit.

                Castiel snorts, glancing down at his hands, fiddling with his pencil. He’s once again taken aback by the concern his friends show for him. When has anyone ever shown this much concern for him? Even such a small gesture as offering to hang out to keep his mind off of his problems. It’s overwhelming, but he has to keep reminding himself of what Gabriel told him in the green room of the theatre the day the Cancers pushed him in the mud. This is what friends are really like, and he’s just going to have to get used to it.

                “I have work until seven, but afterwards?” Castiel says, “Maybe you guys can come over at 7:30?”

                Kevin grins. “Sounds awesome,” he replies, pulling out his phone and shooting a quick text off to Charlie and Gabriel to let them know the plan. He receives a reply from both of them within a minute and scrambles to turn his cell phone ringer off, not having realized it was turned all the way up. The librarian shoots him a dirty look over the brim of her glasses.

                “Alright, they’re in,” Kevin says, showing Cas the texts, “7:30?”

                Cas nods with a smile. “Sounds good.”

                He looks back down at his homework, scratching the back of his head with his pencil as he reads over the last few sentences. He's always been a good student, so these particular assignments don't challenge him all that much, but he's in several AP classes, which means a gigantic workload and not enough time in the day to do it. Kevin is in AP as well, and he and Castiel have taken to studying together like this several times a week. Cas has never had a study buddy before, but he finds that having someone there working with him is motivating.

                However, today, he just _can't_. He can't concentrate. Not only is there the constant nagging memory of a man's voice in his mother's phone call vibrating through his head, but there's also the fact that he has math class with Dean next, and ever since the incident in the bathroom, Castiel hasn't been able to stop thinking about the way Dean's hands felt shoving him against that wall, or the strangely gentle way he'd traced the wound on Cas's forehead.

                He's been very vigilant with following all the guidelines of Project FAD however, and with Charlie and Gabe enforcing it every chance they get, he thinks maybe it should be working by now. But it's not. Even if he forces himself not to look at Dean in math class, and sits with his back to the windows at lunch so he can't stare at Dean at The Docks outside, he still spends the majority of his time thinking about the guy. He'll see a browning patch of grass on his way home and have the fleeting thought that it's almost the same color as Dean's eyes. He'll run his hand over tree bark as he walks through the woods and think that it's the same consistency as Dean's rough voice. He feels phantom hands and fingers on him, and he'll lay in bed at night resolutely ignoring his half-hard dick in his pants, because he's _more_ than certain it's against the rules of Project FAD to jerk off to thoughts of Dean.

                It's frankly ridiculous how screwed he is.

                Kevin starts gathering his books and papers together about ten minutes before their free period is up, saying he has to run to his locker and the bathroom before class. Castiel decides just to leave then too. He's not getting any work done anyway. He's been reading the same sentence in his textbook for fifteen minutes straight.

                Outside the library, Kevin farewells him with a fist bump, and Castiel just stares at Kevin's fist for a second before Kevin has to take his hand and form a fist out of it, bumping both their fists together for him. Castiel cocks his head to the side.

                "What was the point in that?" he asks, and Kevin just laughs, shifting his backpack onto his shoulder.

                "Dude, you're like an alien," he replies before turning and walking down the hall, "See you at 7:30."

                Cas nods and watches after him for a moment before stooping down to stuff his last textbook into his backpack. A couple girls come out of the library next to him and nearly run him over as he squats there on the floor fumbling with the zipper on his bag. He mutters an apology and scoots off to the side, standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

                He glances once more down the hallway where Kevin is walking, and he sees Kevin pushing his way through the door into the stairwell, disappearing from sight. Castiel almost turns around and heads the other direction towards his locker before math class, but then he stops.

                The Cancers are sitting against the wall beside the stairwell that Kevin just entered, all five of them, including Dean, and Castiel watches as they exchange glances and wicked grins, and then all of them are pushing themselves to their feet and entering the stairwell after Kevin. Castiel's brow furrows as he stares at the door sink closed after all five Cancers go in there, and he chews on his lip.

                This doesn't feel right.

                Gritting his teeth, he grips his backpack straps a little tighter and starts walking towards the door to the stairwell. He could be wrong about this. To his knowledge, the Cancers have never really bothered Kevin. He is all but invisible to them. But Kevin is alone in that stairwell right now, and the way the Cancers had looked at each other before standing and going after him left a roiling feeling in Cas's gut.

                His suspicions are confirmed when he pushes through the door to the stairwell after them and hears laughing and the sounds of a scuffle. He peers over the railing and sees shadows moving on the landing below. He's nervous. He's always a little nervous when he's around the Cancers, but it's one thing to mess with him, and another to mess with one of his friends. So he swallows back his reservations and forces himself to walk down the stairs before he can change his mind. Kevin needs him, and Kevin is a good friend, one of the only good friends Cas has ever had. So Cas needs to be a good friend too.

                When he gets to the bottom of the twin flights of stairs, he finds the five Cancers standing there laughing. Gordon and Crowley have Kevin shoved against the wall, and Zach is rifling through Kevin's backpack in his hands, dropping papers and books aside, probably looking for something worthwhile to steal. Kevin looks _pissed_ , but also scared. Who _isn't_ a little scared when they're dealing with these five guys? They have a reputation that ensures that people will be scared.

                The Cancers have their backs to Cas, so they don't see him at first. Kevin is the one who spots Castiel, and he shakes his head minutely, warning him off. He's such a good friend. Even when he's being picked on, he still tries to warn Cas away because he doesn't want Castiel to be bullied too. It warms something within Cas. He can't leave. He won't just leave Kevin here.

                He clears his throat, loud enough for them to hear, and all five of them look back. Alastair grins a sharp, feral smile when he sees him.

                "Castiel," he greets, "What brings you to the South Well?" His voice is like poisoned sap, dripping and cloyingly sweet. Cas suppresses a shiver, trying very hard not to think about the feeling of fire licking at the back of his hair.

                He wants to say something, but he has no idea what to say. He's found that when it comes to bullies, words don't really do anything. Plus, his throat locks up the second he sees Dean staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He makes it a point _not_ to look at Dean. Maybe if he pretends Dean doesn't exist, Project FAD will be a success and he can move on with his pathetic life.

                He grits his teeth, and then, without a word, stalks forward and pulls Kevin's backpack out of Zach's hands. To his surprise, Zach just releases it, probably more out of surprise than anything. Castiel hands the backpack to Kevin and grabs his arm, pulling him away from the wall where Gordon and Crowley are holding him.

                "Get out of here," Cas says to him, and Kevin just eyes him strangely, stuck in place, not knowing what to do. Gordon's hand still has a pretty decent grip on the lapel of Kevin's jacket, and Castiel glances at it before grabbing it. He's halfway sure he's dreaming when he takes Gordon's hand and places it on his own jacket, giving Kevin a push towards the door. "Go," he urges, and Kevin swallows, glancing at Gordon's hand now on Castiel's chest. All the Cancers are just _standing_ there watching this happen, to both Kevin and Castiel's surprise.

                Kevin gives Cas a pointed look, trying to communicate something, but Cas is too distracted by Dean in his peripheral vision to understand what Kevin is trying to say with his eyes. Then Kevin turns and scrambles for the door, jerking his arm free of Alastair's grasp as Al reaches out and tries to grab him again.

                "Leave him alone," Cas hears himself saying, and Al looks back at him, eyes angry, "If you feel it's absolutely necessary to belittle people, then do it to me. Leave my friends alone."

                All five of their eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling, and Crowley laughs next to him. "Never thought I'd see the day Novak grew himself a pair of furries," he says, coming forward. Cas stiffens as he and Gordon shove him back against the wall where Kevin just was. He's angled awkwardly because the bulk of his backpack behind him is blocking him from being flat against the wall.

                "Is that it Castiel?" Al asks, grinning that toothy grin again, although his eyes are angry, "Are you finally a big boy now?"

                Cas looks up and his eyes accidentally fall upon Dean. _Damn it_ , he's been really good about _not_ looking at Dean at all the last few days. This is the first time he's actually looked directly at him in what feels like forever, and it's like drinking a tall glass of water when you're parched. He instantly feels better, and that shouldn't be happening, because Dean is here too, and he's part of the reason that Cas is still stuck here pinned against the wall.

                He can't help but stare at Dean for a few seconds, taking in what he's missed out on the past few days. Dean is staring at him with a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and reservation. There are three jagged gashes on Dean's chin, one of them bisecting his lip, and he has a massive bruise adorning his upper cheekbone. Castiel wonders if the other Cancers did that to him. Maybe they don't just beat on other people - maybe occasionally they beat on each other.

                When Al steps forward, Castiel tears his eyes away from Dean's face, looking up at him. Alastair seems to have noticed Cas staring at Dean, because the look in his eyes is not the same as it was before. He looks livid. Castiel recalls Gabriel saying things about Al, how he has a strange possessive obsession with Dean, and Cas gulps nervously.

                "You know, I never pegged you as stupid Castiel," Al says, just before throwing a punch. As Cas's head whips to the side with the blow to the cheek, his ears ringing a little, he briefly considers to himself why this is all so necessary. But his thoughts are cut off by Zach hitting him, and then Gordon gets in a punch.

                Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean back up a step, and Cas is overwhelmed with confusion when suddenly, Dean turns and leaves the stairwell without even laying a finger on Castiel. He doesn't have long to ponder why before one of the remaining four Cancers is hitting him again.

                They aren't really hitting him all that hard, and as far as beatings go, this isn't the worst he's ever experienced. When the stairwell door opens again a minute or so later, Kevin walks in with Victor trailing behind him. "Hey!" Victor shouts, coming forward and grabbing the Cancers one by one, jerking them away from Castiel. Cas's ears are ringing, but he doesn't lose his balance when they let him go. "The four of you, to the office, _now_ ," Victor growls, giving Al a shove towards the door.

                The Cancers grumble and snicker to themselves, wandering out of the stairwell, and Victor glances back once. "You okay kid?" he asks, and Castiel wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, finding a little bit of blood there from one of the punches. He nods to Victor, and Victor looks at him for a moment, like he wants to do something more. But then one of the Cancers mutters some offhanded insult about Cas, and Victor turns, snapping at them to get their asses moving, disappearing from the stairwell.

                Kevin comes forward quickly, grabbing Cas's arm. "Dude, you alright?" he asks, "Jesus Castiel, you shouldn't've done that."       

                Cas just chuckles a little. "I wouldn't want you to steal my thunder," he replies, smiling a little at Kevin and pushing himself away from the wall. He has a headache, but other than that, he's fine. This wasn't that bad, all things considered.

                Kevin rolls his eyes. "You're an idiot," he says, "But thank you for helping me."

                Cas shrugs with a small nod, just as the five minute warning bell rings, signaling their next class is about to begin.

                "I'll see you later?" he asks Kevin.

                Kevin gives him a small smile. "Yeah," he replies, and Cas wipes his mouth one more time before sniffing and shifting his backpack onto his shoulders again, leaving the stairwell. He feels Kevin watching after him.

                When he walks into math class, he can see Dean out of the corner of his eye watching him, and Cas very deliberately chooses a seat towards the front so that he can't see Dean at all unless he purposely turns around. Everything this guy does is messing with his head. Why wouldn't Dean join in with his friends and hit him too? Why did Dean leave the stairwell? The fact that he did that is _not_ helping Castiel get over him any faster.

                He wipes a little bit of remaining blood away from the corner of his mouth and fishes in his backpack for his tiny travel-size bottle of Ibuprofen, tossing a few into his mouth to help with his throbbing head. He can feel Dean's eyes burning holes into his back for the rest of the class, but he forces himself to pay attention as Mr. Wyatt explains logarithms, ignoring every single thing in front of him that happens to be the color green.

 

*       *       *

 

                "How's that new mobile coming together?" Bobby asks Castiel later that night at work while Castiel is busy folding up an origami turtle for his newest creation.

                Cas shrugs. "I ran out of fishing line my last shift," he replies, "I'll have to use something else."

                Bobby hums in thought, and then rifles under the counter for a moment, coming out with a spool of black string. "Try this," he says, handing the string to Cas, "No harm in changing things up a bit."

                Castiel smiles. "Thank you Bobby." He's getting more used to calling his boss Bobby instead of sir now that it's been a couple months. Bobby disappears behind the Japanese curtains again into the back of the store.

                The bell above the door jingles a little as a new customer opens it, and Castiel glances up, waiting for whoever it is to walk further back into the store. There are so many shelves and mountains of merchandise in this store, he can't even see the front door from where he's perched at the desk. The customer veers off to the side into the first aisle though, so Castiel looks back down at his turtle, listening to their footsteps as they scour the shelves.

                He's lost in thought, and he keeps moving his jaw a little to keep it from getting stiff as fresh bruises form on his face from the stairwell this afternoon. There's a cut on the inside of his lip that he can't keep his tongue away from, but besides a few bruises, he came out of this most recent beating relatively intact. He doesn't regret stepping in when he did. In fact, he finds that it actually feels good. He's never really had anybody he felt connected enough to that he would defend like he did with Kevin. It feels good to take a beating knowing that he's doing it in someone else's place. Makes it feel like it's actually worth something.

                "Well hey Castiel!" he hears a happy voice greet from in front of him, and he looks up to see Pamela coming up to the desk, "I didn't know you worked here!"

                Cas gives her a small smile. "For about two months now," he says, nodding his head in greeting. Pamela is as quirky and volatile as he originally suspected of a theatre teacher. She's just like another student. Cas doesn't even feel weird about calling her by her first name instead of Ms. Barnes.

                "Oh, did you see the casting sheet for the play? I posted it on the board in the green room," Pamela says, setting what looks like an antique crystal ball down on the counter and fishing for her wallet in her purse.

                "No, I didn't get a chance to look at it," Castiel replies, picking up the crystal ball and searching for a price tag. Truthfully, he forgot about the casting sheet, what with his mind being distracted by mysterious male voices and big green eyes lately.

                Pamela grins widely at him as she hands him her credit card. "You got the part you auditioned for!" she says happily, "Dirk the school bully!"

                Castiel blinks up at her. "Really?"

                She nods her head. "Yup! Your script is in my office. You can pick it up tomorrow in theatre. Congrats hun."

                He slides Pam's card through the machine, ringing her up, and a smile spreads across his face. "Thank you Pamela," he says gratefully.

                She nods, tucking a dark curl of hair behind her ear. "Where's that crusty old Bobby Singer tonight? He around?"

                "I can hear, ya idjit," Bobby's voice calls out from the back, and Pamela laughs, accepting the paper bag Castiel hands her with the crystal ball and her receipt inside. Bobby pushes his way out from the back again and gives Pamela a big hug. She squeezes him tight and picks him up mid-hug, patting him hard on the back.

                "You know each other?" Castiel asks.

                "Small town," Bobby replies, pulling his hat off and slapping it against his leg once for no reason before putting it back on. Pam grins at both of them.

                "I better get going," she says, "Castiel, don't forget to come pick up your script tomorrow."

                Cas nods. "I won't."

                "See you later Bobby," Pam calls on her way out the door. The bell jingles as she leaves, and Cas and Bobby glance at each other.

                "She's a spitfire, that woman," Bobby chuckles, and then turns and disappears into the back again. Cas sits back down at the chair behind the counter and finishes folding the last leg of his origami turtle. He can't stop smiling to himself. _He got the part!_ He's never been in theatre before, but apparently his audition was good enough that he got the part he wanted in Marv's play.

                For a little while he forgets about Dean and his mother, and just thinks about what it will be like to perform in front of the whole school. And he doesn't even have to be nervous, because he has his friends to support him. Rail Pass is so astoundingly different from any other place he's lived before. He has friends, and he's getting to do things he's never done before. Sure, the Cancers are here, but he's trying not to let them ruin all the good he's come in contact with since moving here.

                It takes him another hour or so to string each of the origami turtles he's made with the black string Bobby gave him, and he attaches them to the curved bits of wire, constructing another mobile for Bobby's craft shop. He holds it up when it's done to make sure everything is balanced well, and the little turtles bob and spin as they hang there. It's one of his favorite mobiles that he's made so far, besides the Yoda one hanging over the front desk. He glances at the clock. It's six-thirty. He still has a half an hour left until he can leave work for the day.

                "Hey Bobby?" he asks.

                "Yeah?"

                "I finished the mobile. Where do you want me to hang it?"

                He hears Bobby taking a swig of his whiskey, the tell-tale sound of the liquid sloshing in the little bottle. "There's a little hook on the ceiling in the back of the store near the antique doll collection," he calls out after swallowing, "See if it goes well there."

                Castiel stands and grabs the stool he's sitting on, pulling it out from behind the counter and disappearing into the guts of the shop between the shelves. The back corner of the shop where the doll collection stands on a tall shelf is out of view and sort of forgotten of, but Castiel's mobiles are taking up the majority of the store ceiling at this point, hanging wherever there's room for them, and right now, this is the last place he can really fit one until more are sold.

                He spots the ceiling hook Bobby was referring to in the corner, and he sets up his stool, climbing onto it and stretching his arms up to hang the mobile. As he's standing there, holding the doll shelf so he doesn't tip over and fall, he hears the bell over the door jingle as another customer walks in. He doesn't bother looking back - he can't see the front door from where he is so deep in the shop.

                He hears heavy footsteps as the customer enters and the bell dings once more as the door closes. Castiel misses the hook a couple times, the stool tipping dangerously beneath him, and he utters a small "Whoa," when he almost loses balance completely, catching himself at the last second, the dolls all rattling on the shelf as he falls into it. He rights himself and reaches for the hook again as he listens to the customer's heavy footsteps walking in the direction of the front desk.

                "Uncle Bobby?" Castiel hears a deep voice call, and he freezes. _He knows that voice_. Without really considering the consequences, Castiel whips his head around, looking in the direction of the front desk, even though he knows from where he is in the store, he won't be able to see it. He loses balance again, and drops the turtle mobile, grabbing onto the shelf once more. Several of the antique dolls go toppling off the shelf as the stool beneath Castiel slips and falls over. It clatters loudly on the wooden floor and Castiel squeaks a little as he falls next to it. One of the antique dolls topples off a higher shelf and lands on his face, and he sputters, knocking it away.

                "Uncle Bobby?" he hears that deep gorgeous voice call again, this time in his direction. It's Dean. Dean is here.  _Damn it_. He hears Dean's footsteps coming his way, and Castiel scrambles upright, prepared to stand and run, because he can't see Dean here. He _can't._

                Wait. Did he just say _Uncle Bobby_? Bobby is Dean's uncle?

                "Back here!" he hears Bobby's voice call from behind the curtain, and Castiel breathes out a sigh of relief when he hears Dean turn and head towards the front desk again. A few more steps and Dean would have discovered Castiel sprawled in the most undignified manner on the floor back here.

                He hears Dean's heavy boots go behind the desk, and Dean pushing through the curtain into the back. Castiel can hear Bobby's voice speaking, and then Dean's huskier voice reply, but he can't hear what they're talking about. He tries not to let the sound of Dean's voice go straight to his dick, but he can't help it. _God_ , this is just what he needed tonight.

                Rubbing his forehead where the doll landed on his face, which just so happens to be the same spot Dean had traced with his finger in the bathroom a few days ago, he pushes himself to his feet, picking up the fallen dolls and placing them back on the shelf. Thankfully none of their little porcelain faces are broken.

                He stands his stool up again and scoops up his turtle mobile, climbing back up onto the stool, listening to Dean and Bobby chatting in the back. He had no idea Bobby was Dean's uncle. Does that mean Jo is Dean's cousin? Or is _Uncle Bobby_ just a nickname of sorts? Maybe Bobby is just a family friend. Castiel misses a few more times before the string finally catches on the hook in the ceiling, and the mobile bounces and bobs as it hangs there.

                Cas climbs carefully down from the wobbly stool, and then just stands there. He doesn't want to go back up front - not until Dean leaves. Seeing Dean outside of school violates several rules on his Project FAD list. Seeing him at Hautley's Bend occasionally is one thing, but now Dean is here at his work. Castiel wonders whether Al and Gordon are outside again like they were that one night when they were smoking weed in the alleyway. He swallows hard at the thought, holding onto the stool and peeking around the corner of the shelf, eyeing the front desk and the Japanese curtain.

                Above him, the turtle mobile spins a little as it settles, and he looks up at it, admiring his work. He's surprised he didn't break something, toppling off the stool like that. He rubs his sore head again, palming his jeans where his dick is stubbornly responding every time he hears the sound of Dean's voice from the back room. This is pathetic. Something as small as a _voice_ shouldn't be enough to have Castiel popping boners like a fourteen-year-old. Even if that voice is the kind of voice that could properly narrate every porno in existence.              

                He doesn't know how long he stands there. Easily ten minutes or more. He's half-tempted to sneak forward a bit and eavesdrop on their conversation. But why? What would be the point? So Bobby is Dean's uncle. Big deal. Why would any conversation they have be at all relevant to Castiel?

                Only...it _is_ a big deal. Castiel was beginning to think that his work is the one place he can come and escape from thoughts of Dean for a while as he works on his origami. But now...now, Bobby is going to be a constant reminder of Dean. Yet another thing he'll have to add to his Project FAD list - never, under any circumstances, talk to Bobby about Dean. The less he knows about Dean, the better. The easier it will be to get over him.

                Even if he desperately _wants_ to know more about the guy.

                He's just about to sneak closer when he suddenly hears Bobby and Dean coming out from behind the curtain, chatting away about some woman named Ellen and a dinner or something they have planned. Cas has heard Bobby mention Ellen before. Maybe she's his wife? He hears Bobby rifling around at the desk as Dean says something about Sam. _His little brother_ , Castiel reminds himself. Nice kid - nothing like his older brother.

                "Castiel? You got any idea where the sticky notes are?"

                Cas stiffens as he hears Bobby call out to him. _Damn it_. He can't simply hide until Dean leaves now. Dean knows.

                "Castiel?" Bobby calls again, "You alive back there kid?"

                He realizes he's frozen in place, and he closes his eyes for a second, bumping his forehead once against the shelf. _Fuck_. Swallowing hard, he emerges from behind the shelf, dragging the stool with him, and he can see Dean staring at him out of the corner of his eye as he walks by. He means to ignore Dean until he leaves, just as the Project FAD rules call for, but then, to his surprise, Dean speaks.

                "You work here or something?" Dean asks, and Castiel's eyes snap to his face. As always, he can't help but stare for a moment before forcing himself to look away, setting the stool back down behind the counter.

                "It would appear that way, yes," Castiel replies, and even to his own ears, he sounds snarky. He would be proud of that fact, but he's too busy trying to remember how to function.

                "You boys know each other?" Bobby asks as Castiel hands him the sticky notes, and Cas glances up at Dean again. They hold stares for a second, and Cas watches as Dean's throat ripples when he swallows. He wants nothing more than to bite that neck. His hands tighten painfully on the edge of the counter in an attempt to smother those thoughts.

                "We-we're friends. Acquaintances," Dean lies to Bobby, and Castiel has to actually bite his tongue to keep from saying anything. He and Dean are the furthest thing from _friends_.

                "Ah, that so?" Bobby smiles, scribbling something onto a sticky note and tearing it off, handing it to Dean, "That's nice. Maybe Castiel should come over for dinner tomorrow night."

                Both Dean and Castiel's eyes widen to twice their size, and they exchange a glance. "No, no, I think Cas has-"

                "I have plans Bobby," Castiel supplies before Dean botches a lie, "Maybe some other time." He never intends on following through with that. He gives Bobby a stiff smile.

                Bobby's eyes dart between the two of them, looking at them strange. "What's a matter with ya?" he asks them, "You both look like you swallowed a nail."

                Dean's throat ripples again. _God_.

                When neither of them say anything, Bobby rolls his eyes and turns to head back behind the curtain. "Ya want the old guy outta the room, all ya gotta do is ask," he grumbles, pushing into the back. Castiel watches the Japanese curtain settle back into place, and then he swallows, glancing back up at Dean standing a few feet in front of the counter.

                He only looks at him for a moment, and then forces himself to look away, because he's breaking so many Project FAD rules right now, it's not even funny. He sits back down at his stool, his legs suddenly rubbery, and he pulls out several new sheets of paper. He doesn't know what he's going to make next, but even if he did, he's not sure his mind could process how to make them right now. He feels Dean still looking at him.

                Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Dean glance away after a few seconds, looking to the side, and then scanning over the desk. To Castiel's shock, Dean lets out a little laugh suddenly, and Castiel is so surprised he glances up again. Dean is looking at the origami Yoda mobile hanging over the desk. He looks at it for a second, and then steps forward, and Castiel actually leans back a little as Dean comes closer.

                Dean reaches up and takes the mobile down from where it's hanging on the ceiling, fishing in his pocket and slapping a twenty on the counter, even though the mobiles are only fifteen dollars. Then, without another word, he takes one last look at Castiel and turns, leaving the store. Cas can't help it - he watches Dean walk away, staring after him until Dean disappears out the door and out of sight.

                It's only when he's certain Dean isn't going to come back that Cas releases the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He drops his head to his chest, running his hand through his messy hair, looking at the twenty Dean had placed on the counter.

                He stares at it in silence until Bobby comes back out from behind the curtains again. "I didn't know you boys were friends," he comments.

                Castiel swallows and snaps out of it, reaching out and plucking the money off the counter, popping the register open and tucking it inside. "We're not...friends," Castiel says, clearing his throat, "I mean, we're-we're more acquaintances."

                Bobby hums in acknowledgement, glancing at his watch. Castiel has about ten minutes left of his shift. He scoots aside as Bobby comes up and opens the register again, beginning to count out the drawer. "Dean and his brother Sam come over to our house a few times a week," he says, "They're good kids. Daddy's a piece a work, but they turned out okay I think."

                Castiel bites his lip. He _wants_ to ask. He wants to ask about Dean's father, and his house, and everything about him. He shouldn't, but he wants to. Maybe just _one_ question. Just one. He'll allow himself to ignore Project FAD for just one question.

                "And their mother?" he asks. He figures maybe he shouldn't ask Bobby to elaborate about Dean and Sam's "piece a work" of a father. _Piece a work_ is never a good thing.

                "Mm, sore subject, their mom," Bobby warns, "It'd be best if you didn't mention her to Dean. Boy's been through enough."

                Castiel nods. Well that shouldn't be too hard. Castiel and Dean hardly speak anyway. Cas spends more time dodging his fists. He's half-tempted to tell Bobby the truth, to tell him that Dean hurts him, bullies him. Bobby thinks Dean is this good kid, but Castiel knows that's not true - at least, not completely true.

                But he doesn't say anything. Because he remembers the way Dean was with Sam at Hautley's Bend. And he remembers the way Dean looked at his lips in the bathroom at school. And he thinks about how Dean just bought one of his origami mobiles. And he feels warm inside. He shouldn't, but he does.

                So he says nothing to Bobby, because maybe Dean isn't a bad guy. Maybe he has bad friends, and angry fists, but maybe he's not so bad. There's something else there, under the surface. Castiel's known that from the very beginning. He's just been torn about whether that's reason enough to forgive Dean for hurting him again and again. Even though, technically, Dean hasn't hurt him at all lately. He'd left the stairwell today. He'd punched the wall in the bathroom. He watches his friends bully Castiel, but for the past few weeks, Dean hasn't done much of anything in the way of harming Castiel.

                Fucking hell, this is messing with his head.

                Bobby lets him out of work a few minutes early, and Castiel hugs himself as he crosses the street quickly, glancing around, half expecting Dean to still be there, or some of the other Cancers. But no one is there, and Castiel mounts his bike and rides home quickly.

                He forgets that Gabe, Charlie, and Kevin are coming over until he rides up and finds them all sitting on his front porch. They're here a little early, but Castiel doesn't mind. In fact, he's grateful. He needs a distraction. He quickly picks Anna up from Missouri's, and she immediately plops down in front of the TV to watch what looks like an old episode of Spongebob Squarepants.

                Castiel and his friends retreat to the kitchen, and Kevin insisted on bringing real food this time as opposed to just a plethora of candy and junk food. They spend the next hour or so cooking and laughing, and for a while Castiel can forget about Dean and work and his mother.

                While they're serving dinner, Gabe pulls out a bottle of wretched-looking whipped cream Vodka he apparently stole from his older brother. Charlie and Castiel both agree to a few drinks instantly, but Kevin hesitates at first. His mother is strict and _Asian_ , he insists, but then Gabriel pushes a glass of straight Vodka at him, and Kevin bows to peer pressure. They all toss back a couple shots and Castiel nearly pukes when he tastes it. It's like whipped cream mixed with everything awful in the world, and it burns his throat going down. But he forces himself drink several more shots, because maybe he'll forget about everything he's not supposed to be thinking about if he loses himself in some alcohol.

                It has the opposite effect.

                The more drunk he gets, the more he thinks about Dean, and before he realizes he's even doing it, he's been babbling on and on for ten minutes about Dean's _eyes_ , and how lovely his rare smile is, and _don't you guys think Dean just has the loveliest green eyes_? Gabe laughs and calls it Stockholm Syndrome again, and Kevin and Charlie scold him and tell him to remember Project FAD, to never forget. But Cas has no self-control right now, and he just _talks_. He hardly says anything that doesn't somehow involve Dean.

                He mentions what Bobby said about Dean's father being a "piece a work", and he tells his friends about how he's not supposed to say anything to Dean about Dean's mother, because it's a sore subject. He tells them everything he knows. Charlie tells him she's heard rumors about Dean - ones beyond the obvious reputation-based rumors. She heard that Dean pulled his little brother Sammy from a fire when they were young, and he's covered head to toe in burn scars because of it. Castiel isn't sure if he believes that, because he's never seen the scars. But then again, Dean wears so many layers of clothing, it might be possible. It would explain why Dean is angry all the time.

                He brushes those thoughts aside when Charlie pulls out a game called Cards Against Humanity. Castiel has never played it before, but he has a lot of fun, and learns things he really should never have to know ever in his life, they're so inappropriate. All four of them end up a laughing, crying mess, Gabriel rolling around on the floor and Charlie holding herself up from joining him by gripping Cas's arm.

                It's only when Anna comes in and snaps at them to shut up because she's going to bed, that Castiel farewells his friends. They elect to walk home, even though it's cold outside and late. Kevin insists that it will sober them up, and that he can't show up to his house drunk or his mother will never allow him to leave his room again.

                Cas falls into bed that night on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow, and he passes out almost instantly. His dreams are filled with green eyes and a screaming boy, and he sees Dean standing there on fire, the flames lapping at his face and neck, melting away his clothes and skin. And he's crying, and it _hurts_ to see Dean crying.

                Castiel wakes with a jolt sometime around three in the morning, and despite the fact that he's still a little drunk, and a headache is coming on, he can't fall back asleep, because the dream scared him so much.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean blinks his eyes open the next morning just as the sun is coming up over the trees of Rail Pass out his window. The first thing he sees is the origami Yoda mobile he'd bought from Castiel yesterday that he hung next to his _Return Of The Jedi_ poster right above his bed. He just stares at it for a while, watching it spin lazily in the current from the vent above his door as the heat kicks on, the little Yoda's and light sabers bumping into each other as it moves.

                He finds himself smiling as he thinks about how flustered Castiel had been yesterday at Bobby's shop when Dean came in. But then the smile fades from his face when he realizes that he himself was just as flustered, and he'd stammered in Cas's presence.

                Shaking his head with a scoff, he shoves himself up from his mattress and wanders down the hall, waking Sam up gently and whipping up breakfast for the both of them. John hadn't come home last night, which is a relief, so Sam and Dean don't have to be extra quiet this morning as they get ready for school.

                Dean sees Sam off, and starts to walk towards the woods on his way to school. But then, he stops halfway there. He'd really rather not deal with his friends this morning. He doesn't know why - he's just not in the mood to deal with their shit. He turns and heads down the street, deciding to take the long way to school this morning to avoid having to walk by The Docks where his friends are undoubtedly hanging out.

                Hugging himself against the chill of the mid-November morning, he wanders down the side of the road. He sees a few people coming out of their houses and getting into their cars, heading to work, and he looks away when a couple of them wave at him. It's way too early to even pretend to be polite. He fishes in his pocket and whips out his pack of cigarettes, placing one between his lips and holding it there while he pats his pockets for his lighter.

                Just as he flips his Zippo on and lights up his cigarette, he happens to glance up and sees _none other_ than Castiel Novak himself, stepping out of an old blue Victorian house across the street. Dean chokes as he inhales and coughs loudly, tripping in an attempt to duck down behind a parked car so Castiel doesn't look up and see him. Dean stifles his coughs. _What the hell?_ He never knew he and Castiel lived so close together, just a few blocks apart.

                He pulls himself together and peeks around the car he's hiding behind. Castiel has his back to him, and he's straightening a scarf around a young girl's neck. It's the little red-haired girl Dean has seen Castiel at the park with a couple times - Anna, if Dean remembers what Sam called her correctly. Castiel's sister. Dean watches Cas make sure her jacket and scarf are on snuggly, and then he walks her next door. Cas drops Anna off at the neighbor's house, and then he's crossing the street and heading into the woods.

                Dean holds his breath until Cas disappears into the trees, and then lets it out in a _whoosh_. _Man_ , he feels creepy, just ducking here spying on Castiel. But he can't help it. If he can't _have_ Castiel the way he really _wants_ Castiel, then he'll have to resort to this - stalking the poor guy.

                God, Dean's pathetic.

                He shoves himself to his feet and glances at where Cas disappeared into the woods, making sure he doesn't appear again. Then Dean takes another drag on his smoke and continues his walk down the street. As he passes, he sees Castiel's neighbor open her door and Anna comes out of the house with another little boy and an older black woman, who locks her door behind herself and ushers both the kids into the car parked on the curb. Dean has seen the woman before - he thinks maybe she works at Sam's school.

                Dean watches as he walks, until they drive away, and when the woman driving waves at him, he feels strangely obligated to wave back, even though he hates the whole concept of waving at strangers.

                Chewing on his cigarette filter, he sighs and runs his hands through his hair, mussing it up as he walks.

                It takes him twice as long to get to school since he took the long way, but he's satisfied with the fact that he doesn't have to see his friends first thing this morning. He enters through the front door and heads to his first class ten minutes early, lost in thought.  

                He spends the rest of the day like that, silent and distracted. He's been like this a lot lately, and he hates himself for it. But he can't help it. Because Castiel is so _distracting_.

                When math class rolls around, he pays attention even _less_ than he usually does, staring at the back of Castiel's head. Cas is sitting in such a way that Dean can see the outline of the side of his jaw. It has a few bruises on it from yesterday in the stairwell, but Castiel seems remarkably unaffected by that whole ordeal. Dean supposes Castiel is sort of used to beatings like that, sort of like Dean is used to John and all his shit. But still...it was so noble what Castiel did, defending his friend yesterday.

                _God_ , Dean needs to stop thinking about it. Who cares if it was noble? So what if Castiel is used to being bullied? So what if Castiel Novak has the most gorgeous eyes Dean has ever seen? So what if Dean is stuck with this huge crush that came out of fucking _nowhere_ and knocked him on his ass? He needs to just get the fuck over it already, because it's never going to happen - not with someone as admirable and _good_ as Castiel. Dean could never be that lucky.

                By the time school lets out that day, Dean's head is aching with his inner turmoil. He feels like hitting something, but at the same time, he doesn't want to. Because _Cas_ wouldn't want him to. And that just makes him want to hit something _more_ , because _who cares_ what Cas would want? Castiel doesn't want _Dean_ , so why does it matter? It's an endless helpless loop going around and around in Dean's head, and when he exits the school, he really doesn't feel like going home yet. He doesn't want to just go back to his house where he'll have nothing to distract him from this vicious cycle in his brain.

                He spots Castiel with his friends walking out of the back door of the school, and he watches them head towards the theatre. _Right_ , he'd seen the listings for the cast of the winter play - Castiel was chosen for a leading part. Dean had snorted to himself when he'd realized Castiel was cast for the part of Dirk the school bully in the play. _How ironic_.

                Dean hesitates, chewing on his lip, glancing between the door where Castiel and his friends just entered the theatre, and The Docks, where he sees Alastair and Zach sitting with their backs to him. He's pretty sure Crowley mentioned something about Dean and his friends going to Ghost Town this afternoon, but right now, that's frankly the _last_ thing Dean wants to do.

                So he turns, and before his mind processes it, he's walking towards the theatre. When he slips inside the door, he sees a crowd of students hanging out on the stage, and Dean quickly ducks into the shadows at the top of the auditorium, taking a seat in the furthest row from the stage possible where he's fairly certain none of the students up there can see him.

                And he watches.

                He watches Castiel interact with his friends. He watches him laugh at something a short guy with chestnut hair says, and Dean watches him accept a stapled stack of papers from the teacher when she arrives, and he watches Cas move to the side and read over what's on the paper, his lips moving as he reads.

                He watches as the company splits up into separate groups, and start running lines for what Dean assumes is the winter play. But mostly, they just laugh. Dean finds himself smiling as he crouches like a fucking creep in the back of the auditorium, because watching Castiel and his friends practice lines is like watching the blooper reels of some comedy movie. More often than not, all of them, Castiel included, are on the floor hugging their stomachs, laughing with tears streaming down their faces because one of them decided to say their line a bit more dramatically than necessary. Even the teacher is laughing, and Dean is in the back covering his mouth so he doesn't laugh out loud too.

                _This_. This right here. This is why he has a crush on Castiel. Sure, Castiel is gorgeous, and mysterious, and intriguing, and smart. Sure he's noble, and admirable. But this right here - seeing Castiel with his friends, laughing and carrying on as if he doesn't have to deal with Dean and his friends hurting him every couple of days, as if he doesn't have to deal with being emotionally and physically beaten down constantly, is why Dean likes him. He's brave, and strong. He's everything Dean's not. Castiel can take a beating, and then go laugh with his friends like nothing happened.

                Dean is as jealous as he is infatuated. Castiel is this bright beacon of light in an ugly world where people let their problems eat them alive. Castiel doesn't seem to let his problems get to him too much - at least not with how he appears today, laughing and carrying on with the theatre company.

                Maybe Dean is reading too much into it. Maybe there's more going on in Castiel's head than he lets on. Maybe he's just putting on a strong face, and really, his problems are eating him alive inside. It would make more sense, than thinking Castiel is this superhero. Dean knows firsthand how possible it is to fool everyone around you into thinking you're alright. To take yourself out of your mind and put on a strong face. He does it for Sam, all the time. Maybe that's what Castiel is doing.

                But it doesn't change anything. Dean still feels an ache in his chest every time he sees or thinks about Castiel, an ache made of jealousy, longing, lust, admiration, and adoration. He tries so hard to swallow it down, but he's never felt this way about anyone before. It's so _hard_ to just ignore it. But he _has_ to, for the sake of his own sanity.

                When the teacher directing the theatre practice (who is ridiculously hot, by the way, although nothing compared Castiel's exotic beauty) announces that the session is over, Dean snaps out of his daze and quickly ducks out before anyone can see him. He glances over at The Docks before slipping into the trees. His friends aren't there - they must have left for Ghost Town already.

                Dean doesn't know what he's feeling right now. It's a mix of every emotion possible at the moment, and it's brewed into a roiling, bitter taste in the back of his throat. He doesn't go straight home. He stops at the gas station at the edge of town first and buys a carton of menthols, planning to sit on his roof and smoke as many of them as he can before he pukes. He wants to drink, but he can't do that to Sam again. So he'll smoke. He'll smoke like a fucking train, until the nicotine makes him so dizzy he falls off the roof and breaks his neck. That's what he'll do.

                But when he gets home, his plans instantly change. He hears shouting from inside the house, and then something clatters loudly against the floor. He breaks into a jog as he hears something else crash inside and tears open the front door. _No, no, no_ , when did John get home?

                His father is in the kitchen, and there are broken dishes and bottles everywhere. Sam is hunching near the table, which is currently on three legs and lopsided, but he's keeping it between himself and his father. John is shouting incoherently, something about Sam breaking something. Dean fleetingly wonders why the hell John cares so much, when it looks like he himself has broken half the dishes in the kitchen already. Sam is bleeding from his forehead, and Dean wonders if he took a plate to the face.

                Seeing Sam bleeding blinds Dean. He forgets about everything that happened today. He forgets about Castiel. He forgets about the carton of cigarettes he wants to smoke. He forgets about his friends, and the sound of a beautiful angel laughing, and about himself. All he sees is Sam with blood on his face.

                "Dad! What the hell are you doing!" he shouts over his father, and John turns his way, not even stopping in his tirade as he throws the bottle he's holding at Dean's head. He's got fantastic aim for a drunk bastard, but Dean ducks just in time and the bottle smashes on the wall behind him. As Dean quickly makes his way across the kitchen to where Sam is huddling behind the table, he glances at his father and sees that John is holding a picture frame in his other hand. There's a picture of Mary Winchester inside, but the glass on the frame is broken. It's the picture that's usually hanging in the front hallway, but now it's broken in John's hands. What the hell is going on?

                Their father keeps shouting and Dean dodges a few more things being thrown his way as he moves to block Sammy from the flying dishes and the yelling. He grabs Sam's arm and shields him with his body as he drags him towards the hallway. Sam is frozen in place, but he stumbles after Dean when Dean yanks him harder, urging him to move. There are tears running down his face, mixing with the thin trail of blood leaking from his forehead.

                When he reaches the hallway, John shouts something that sounds a little like "You fuckin' listen to me when I'm talkin' to you!" but it's more just a jumbled mess of syllables worthy of a mute man. There's an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's laying shattered on the floor in the hallway. _Well that explains a lot_.

                When a shot glass clocks Dean in the back of the head, he ducks and grabs his hair in pain, giving Sam a shove towards his room. "Lock the door," he growls, and Sam takes off down the hall as Dean turns back towards John.

                "Dad, stop!" he begs, "Just stop! You're drunk!"

                John is suddenly close enough to reach Dean, and his fist connects with Dean's stomach. Dean gags as the wind is knocked out of him, hunching forward with the punch, stumbling back a few steps. He wants to hit back - he wants to defend himself. But he can't. He'll never fight back, not when it's John hitting him. He remembers the John Winchester his father used to be before The Accident. He remembers the man who used to pour his cereal in the morning, and fix his buttons when he did them up uneven, and tuck the corner of his bottom sheet back around his bed when it popped off. No, he'll never fight back. Even if the man before him is no longer his father, is no longer human. He'll never fight back, no matter what John does to him.

                When John lands an impressive punch across Dean's face, disturbing the healing gashes from a few nights ago with the Tabasco glass, Dean falls to the floor. He crab-walks backwards away from John, but John manages to get a good kick in right to Dean's shin. Dean cries out in pain, but scrambles up and half-runs-half-limps down the hall, falling into his room and kicking the door shut, locking it just as he hears John crash into the other side and begin jiggling the doorknob.

                He's shouting incoherently still, and Dean hears a bit of splintering as the door starts to break when John kicks it a few times. Dean feels blood running out of his nose and wipes it away with the back of his hand, scrambling up and limping to the window. He throws it open and all but falls out of the house into the garden just outside (which is basically just a dirt patch filled with dead weeds). He winces as he feels some of the weeds scratching his arms and face, but he forces himself to stand, clawing his way over to Sam's window.

                He bangs his palm against the glass, and Sam appears, opening the blinds. Dean waves his hand, signaling for Sam to get his ass out here, now. Sam is crying and bleeding, and it breaks Dean's heart as he fights back the nausea building from his aching gut where John punched him. Sam pushes open his window and swings his feet out, and Dean scoops him up under his armpits and lifts him out of his room.

                "You okay?" he asks, and Sam nods shakily, grabbing Dean's hand. He doesn't hold Dean's hand often, but tonight is one of the worst they've had with John in a long, long while. It's been months since John was this bad.

                "Come on," Dean says, holding his stomach with one hand and Sam's hand with the other. He pulls Sammy along and they run down the street. The next door neighbor - an old lady with about seventeen little yapping dogs and a garden of rotten squash in her front yard - is peering out from between her blinds. Dean doesn't blame her. John is _loud_. He and Sam are almost to the end of the block by the time they finally can't hear John's shouts anymore.

                They make it as far as Hautley's Bend before they finally slow to a walk. Dean's leg is aching like a son of a bitch where John kicked him in the shin, and he can feel a throbbing swollen lump already forming right over the bone. They don't stop though, not even to take a few seconds to catch their breath. They keep walking, past the rusted swings and the creaking merry-go-round and the dilapidated slide at Hautley's Bend, and Sam sniffles quietly beside Dean, wiping blood off his forehead as it grows tacky and cold.

                Dean already knows they're heading for Bobby's. It's where they always go when things are bad. Bobby and Ellen and Jo are warm and gentle and remind Dean of goose feather pillows and lavender candles and apple pie. Everything nice - that's what the Singers are.

                He glances down at Sam as the kid starts crying harder, and he pulls his brother to a stop, turning and kneeling down in front of him. Sam has a death grip on his hand, and he isn't letting go, so Dean simply holds back just as tightly. "Hey, hey, dude, none of that," he says, reaching up and wiping tears and snot and blood away from Sam's face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, "How you ever gonna pick up any girls when you look like a Shrek reject, huh?"

                Sam chokes out a watery laugh, but it sounds so broken and ugly that it just hurts Dean more. He nudges Sam's shoulder.

                "What happened tonight Sammy?" he asks, "Why was dad so pissed?"

                Sam sniffles a little, staring at the asphalt between them, not looking Dean in the eyes. "I tripped in the front hall and broke mom's picture," he replies, barely understandable through his tears. He hiccups a little as he scrubs at his eyes. He's not doing much good - just smearing blood and snot around.

                Dean recalls seeing Mary's picture in John's hand, the glass cracked in a few places. Combine a bottle of whiskey, a few beers, a late night, and a broken picture of the only person John Winchester has ever truly loved, and Dean can see how their father got so angry so quickly. Tack on Sam probably trying to apologize and calm him down, and you get the raging hurricane of a monster that John became tonight.

                Dean's glad he got home when he did. He should have been there all along. _God dammit_.

                "Hey, Sammy, look, it's not your fault dude," he says, wiping at Sam's face again with his sleeve and then ruffling his shaggy, messy hair. Sam doesn't say anything, just sniffles, but Dean knows the kid doesn't believe him. He's got this thing where he blames himself for everything bad that happens - a lovely habit he picked up from his older brother.

                Dean sighs and stands again. "You wanna hitch a ride?" he asks, and Sam sucks his lower lip into his mouth before nodding. Dean gives a little smile and stoops down, turning his back on his brother so that Sam can climb onto his shoulders. Once Sam is situated, Dean holds onto his legs and stands, wincing as his shin protests with a sharp stab of pain that shoots up his whole leg and right into his groin.

                He groans in pain, but tries to cover it with a laugh. "Jesus Shamu, lay off the Hostess next time," he grumbles to Sam, and Sam laughs another broken, watery little laugh, resting his arms on top of Dean's head to keep his balance. Dean limps the last dozen or so blocks to Bobby and Ellen's house, and when he gets there, Ellen answers the door with a huge smile on her face, and it's only then that Dean realizes he forgot about the dinner Bobby invited him to yesterday (and Castiel as well - wouldn't _that_ have been a wonderful disaster).

                The smile disappears from Ellen's face the second she sees the state of Dean and Sam, and she ushers them inside. By now, Sam has stopped crying, and is just hanging on quietly. Dean lifts him off his shoulders and sets him down on the floor, and he gives Ellen a little smile. "Plane crash," he tells her as an explanation for the blood and Dean limping. She sets her lips in a thin line, and gives them a push towards the bathroom in the back of the house, telling them to go get cleaned up and dinner's in a little while.

                As Dean and Sam slide into the bathroom, Dean pokes his head back out really quickly. "Hey Ellen, you mind if-"

                "The bed's already made upstairs," Ellen cuts him off, "You boys are staying here tonight. No exceptions."

                Dean gives her a grateful smile. "Thanks Ellen."

                "No problem sweetie," she says, "You know where the first aid kit is."

                Dean knocks twice on the doorframe and then slips into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. He sits Sam down on the toilet and kneels in front of him, taking a washcloth and wetting it in the sink.

                Sam's chin begins to quiver again as Dean cleans his face, and Dean tsks. "No more crying, you baby," he says, "Come on, you think chicks are into that whole sensitive guy act? It's a hoax."

                Sam bites his lip and glances up at Dean for the first time the whole night. Dean looks at him for a second, and then finishes cleaning the blood off his face.

                "There," he says as he secures a bandage over the gash on Sam's head, "Rub some dirt in it, it'll be fine."

                Sam sniffs. "Are you okay?" he asks, and Dean flexes his quickly-swelling jaw, feeling the blood from his nose drying on his lip and chin.

                "I'm alright dude, don't worry about me," Dean says, grinning at Sam and trying not to wince as he stands and walks over to the mirror, beginning to wipe away the blood from his face.

                "Dean?" Sam asks, and Dean glances over at him.

                "Yeah?"

                "How do you talk to girls?"

                Dean laughs. "Your timing is impeccable."

                Sam shrugs, wiping his eyes where a few tears still cling to his lashes. But he's not going to cry anymore. He's such a good kid. "I just don't wanna think about mom, so I figured we should talk about girls or something."

                Dean grits his teeth at the mention of his mother, but swallows down any and all emotions related to the subject, massaging the heel of his hands into his scars a couple of times to stave off the phantom pains. "Uh," he says, pursing his lips, "I don't know. Just, you know, _talk_ to her. Tell her you like her shoes."

                Sam snorts. "Jess isn't really a girly-girl. I don't think she cares what shoes she's wearing."

                "'Jess', huh?" Dean grins, raising his eyebrows, "What happened to Sarah and Anna?"

                Sam shrugs with a little huff. "Sarah was too clingy, and I was never really into Anna. She's a year younger than me."

                " _Right,_ right, you go for those older ladies," Dean teases, and Sam rolls his eyes.

                "I do not. Jess is in my class."

                Dean chuckles a little. "Alright, alright, I'll accept that," he says, "Well do you know what she likes?"

                Sam chews on his lip as he thinks, and Dean prods at the swollen lump on his jaw, pushing out his cheek with his tongue to test the elasticity of his stiff skin. It aches, and he winces, swallowing coppery-tinged spit. "She plays on the soccer team," Sam says after a minute, "And she told me she wants to go to law school."

                Dean laughs as he hoists his injured leg up onto the counter. "She's twelve - how the hell does she know she wants to go to law school?"

                Sam shrugs with a little smile. "She's really mature - she knows what she wants."

                Dean snorts as he rolls up his pant leg, and grimaces when he sees the size of the lump on his shin. It's like a golf ball, and it's a sickly shade of purple-gray, like a brain growing on his bone. He belatedly realizes that John was probably wearing his steel-toed boots like he often does. He'll have to ask Ellen for some ice or something.

                "So just ask her about what college she wants to go to," Dean suggests, "And ask her if she would mind you coming to one of her soccer games or something. It's easy. Just pretend like you're interested in what she's interested in. Chicks can go on for hours about all the shit they're interested in."

                Sam huffs. "I _am_ interested in what she's interested in."

                "Well then it should be extra easy for you!" Dean grins, slapping Sam on the back. Sam eyes Dean's swollen leg and winces.

                "What about you?" he asks.

                Dean pokes at his injury gently. "What about me what?"

                "You got your eye on any guys?" Sam asks, and his voice is teasing.

                Dean narrows his eyes at his brother. "You do realize I'm _bisexual_ right? As in, guys _and_ girls?"

                Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, whatever," he says, "So who's the guy?"

                Dean glares, huffing a little laugh and rolling his pant leg back down for now. "Like I'm gonna tell you."

                "So there _is_  a guy?" Sam deduces with a grin, and Dean instantly feels better when he sees his brother smiling.

                "Yeah, maybe," Dean replies, "But you don't get to know."

                "Aw, come on! I told you mine!" Sam whines, jumping up from the toilet and walking to the bathroom door, opening it for Dean, who limps pathetically out into the hallway and towards the kitchen.

                He shakes his head. "If you get that Jess girl to go on a date with you, then _maybe_ I'll tell you about this guy. Deal?"

                Sam pouts to himself for a minute as they walk into the kitchen. "Deal," he grumbles, and Dean grins, ignoring the ache in his swollen jaw as he does it.

                "Whoa, what happened to you guys?" Jo asks from the kitchen table, and Dean and Sam exchange a glance.

                "Plane crash," Ellen supplies from where she's frying something at the stove, giving them a skeptical look over her shoulder. Dean grins at her, and she rolls her eyes, turning back around. Sam plops down next to Jo, and Dean limps as subtly as possible over to the freezer.

                "Ellen, you got an icepack?" he asks.

                "In the door," she replies, eyeing his leg as he tries to keep his weight off of it. He ignores her questioning glance and fishes out the cold pack, limping back over to the table and holding it to his shin tenderly. He still winces despite his gentle touch.

                "Bobby here?" he asks.

                "He'll be home in a while," Ellen says, "He's just closing the shop now."

                Dean nods, leaning back in his chair and letting loose a long sigh. It feels good to be in this house. It's so warm and gentle, like walking into a Buddhist temple. All peace and family and no fucking _shouting_. He looks over at Sam where he's prodding at the bandage on his head, and Sam looks back at him. And for a second, Dean really wants to tell Sam about Castiel. Mostly because he just wants to talk about Cas, and he'll find any way to vent.

                But also, he wants to tell Sam about Castiel because Sam is his _person_ , and he tells Sam about everything. And Castiel means something - Castiel is worth it. He's worth talking about. He's important. More than anything - more than John's psychosis, and Dean's failing grades, and Alastair's grabby hands - Castiel is at the forefront of Dean's mind.

                And that scares Dean half to death.


	9. Seeing Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another super long one guys, I couldn't help it haha  
> Fair warning - this chapter is a more difficult one, I apologize

                _The dream begins as it always does. It's dark, and cold, and so fucking lonely Castiel can barely breathe. He's walking along an old road, and deep down, he knows this road in the one he lives on in Rail Pass, but he doesn't recognize it. It doesn't look the same. He's in a different time, but the houses are still there and the trees are still looming, and everything looks like it's powdered over with a layer of gritty brown like video footage from the turn of the century. Nothing is really in focus - it's like Castiel is walking through sand._

_He sees people around him with featureless faces, in their yards and houses, but somehow he just knows that he's not welcome here. He's alone. Even if he's surrounded by people, he's alone. He wants to tell them that he's sorry, that he made a big mistake, but he knows they won't listen. Because someone died. She died because of his mistake._

_He comes upon Hautley's Bend, and everything looks fresh and new here, like it must have looked in the beginning when it was first built. There aren't any children playing on the playground, or any animals romping across the dirt. It's just Castiel, and the park. The park means something, and his dream self knows this because he built it himself._

_But that doesn't stop it from feeling so lonely. So fucking lonely it's like he's wearing an anchor strapped to his back and it's dragging him down, forcing him to sink into the dirt of Hautley's Bend. She's dead, just beyond the park, hanging in those trees. And he's sorry. God, he so fucking sorry. But it's too late for that now, isn't it?_         

 

*       *       *

 

                Thanksgiving break from school is the whole last week in November, and to Castiel's surprise, both his mother and father make it home for a day or so at the beginning of the week off. They aren't able to stay for the actual Thanksgiving Day, but he, Anna, Naomi, and Bartholomew share a quiet and expectedly awkward Thanksgiving dinner on Tuesday.

                Anna is ecstatic to see them, while Cas is more or less indifferent. He'd much rather be spending time with Gabe, Charlie, and Kevin, but he feels an obligation to at least spend one evening with his parents. It's not like they'll be staying longer than just one night anyway. They never do.

                And while it's nice to see Anna so excited about cooking all day and stuffing herself full of pie and gutting a turkey like a little sociopath, Castiel can't help but eye his mother suspiciously. The muffled voice of the man in the background of his mother's phone call rings clear in his head. He can't stop thinking about it.

                Castiel's father seems in good spirits, at least, if a little tired. His mother is as strict as always, but tries to soften up for the holiday, even when Castiel notices her avoiding his calculating gaze.

                He doesn't know why he cares so much whether or not his mother is seeing someone in Central America while on the job. It's not like his parents have the greatest marriage anyway - they never see each other as it is.

                But it still unnerves him, maybe because he knows that Anna would be upset if she ever found out. Would be upset if anything ever happened to break this barely-there family apart.

                So Cas stays silent. He eats turkey and stuffing and sickly sweet cranberries and ignores his nagging suspicions and useless worries.

                His parents leave the next day and then it's just Castiel and Anna again, same as always. Missouri has them over to her house for the actual Thanksgiving Day, and cooks enough food to feed a small third world country. She sends them home with armfuls of leftovers. Castiel thinks that's nice. It makes up for the fact that their heater in their house is broken again, and he has to call Kevin to come look at it.

                The week off from school is more relieving than Castiel thought it would be. He's not constantly looking over his shoulder, not constantly tensing up in anticipation of being shoved into a locker, not pining after a certain green-eyed boy with angry fists who Castiel really should _not_ be pining after.

                Maybe he needs therapy. Gabriel is right. Certainly this is Stockholm Syndrome.

                When Charlie, Gabe, and Kevin come over the day after Thanksgiving to have their own holiday, he tries to forget about Dean and enjoy his time with his friends. It's effortless, having fun with his friends. His _friends_. It feels unbelievably good to say that.

                They've begun to call Castiel's house their "haven". With no parents here, it's a good place to escape, to be as loud as they want, to detox from school and work and people in general. They watch movies and gossip about theatre and forget about all the homework the crappy teachers assigned them for over the break, somehow forgetting that this is supposed to be a _break_ , and not more time to do homework.

                Castiel bites his tongue and doesn't talk about Dean to any of them. He's talked about him so much already, and Dean is all he _wants_ to talk about to be honest, but he doesn't want to be judged. How could he be so infatuated with someone who is so awful to him? Is this some sort of abandonment issue thing? Maybe he just can't seem to forget that small endearing smile Dean had given him the very first time Castiel had seen him at Hautley's Bend.

                Instead of unloading his feelings, he pours himself into making four intricate origami angels, giving one to each of his friends and keeping the fourth for himself. They're a sign of loyalty, a sign of protection, like friendship bracelets, he thinks. He's inexplicably nervous when he presents the gifts to each of his friends one night while they're gathered around the TV in the living room on blankets and pillows, eating Funyuns and chocolate-covered gummy bears.

                He doesn't know if this is taking it too far, giving these origami gifts to his friends. Are they this close of friends? Will they think this is weird?

                But when their faces light up and Charlie jumps on him with an attack hug and Kevin smiles sheepishly and Gabe slaps his ass in thanks, he knows he's done something right, and feels immensely better. And he forgets for a while about the shitty people he has to deal with, because there are shitty people everywhere, bullies and jerks. But Castiel has his friends, and they're slowly restoring his faith in humanity.

 

*       *       *

 

                "I think I almost have it this time," Kevin says, his voice muffled from underneath the heating unit in the back of Castiel's house.

                "It's alright if you can't fix it," Cas says, "I think I'm going to talk to my parents about sending enough money for me to replace it."

                Something clatters to the floor under the heater and Kevin groans, reaching for it and trying again. Castiel has no idea what he's doing under there. He doesn't know the first thing about fixing heaters. But he has faith in Kevin. Kevin is one of the smartest people he's ever met.

                "I am Kevin freaking Tran," he hears Kevin muttering to himself from under the unit, "I have a 4.5 GPA, a black belt in Karate, and I'm in advanced placement.  I am _not_ going to be mocked by one little heating unit."

                Castiel presses his lips together to keep from laughing as he listens to Kevin grumbling to himself. He elects to give Kevin some space for now as he mutters and curses under the machine, and Cas wanders back down the hall to the kitchen where Gabe, Charlie, and Anna are hanging out. All three of them are sitting cross-legged on the island counter playing UNO.

                "I think that heating unit is going to be the death of Kevin," he says, sighing and dropping down in a chair at the kitchen table.

                Charlie suddenly whoops triumphantly. "That's right, Draw Four bitches!" she laughs, slapping down a card, and Gabe proceeds to throw a pretzel at her head.

                "This game ends friendships," he groans, snatching four more cards up from the pile and adding them to his hand. He has so many cards that he can't hold them all fanned out. He's losing by a long shot.

                From down the hall, Kevin curses, and something clinks, and then suddenly, there's that tell-tale screeching car crash sound from within the walls of the house, right before the heat kicks back on. All of them cheer, and Castiel can hear Kevin jumping up and down whooping happily. "That's right! I'm Kevin freaking Tran!" he cheers, "You don't fuck with Kevin freaking Tran!" He wanders into the kitchen covered in dust and red in the face, but he's beaming ear to ear. He glances at his watch. "Jesus, I've been working on that thing for three hours? It's already almost eleven!"

                " _But_ , I don't have to wear my winter coat to bed tonight," Anna says from the counter, "So your efforts are appreciated."

                Kevin grins as he plops down in the chair next to Castiel. "Damn right my efforts are appreciated."

                "Speaking of bed," Castiel says, taking Kevin's wrist and glancing at his watch too, "Anna, it's time."

                She groans. "Can't I just play for ten more minutes? I'm winning!"

                "Bullshit you're winning!" Charlie protests, waving the three cards she has left in her hand in Anna's face.

                "Nope, come on," Castiel says, standing up and walking over, plucking Anna's cards out of her hand and pulling her off the counter, "You stayed up until one last night. You can't do that two nights in a row."

                Anna grumbles and mutters a goodnight to everyone in the kitchen, walking ahead of her brother. Castiel follows her up the stairs and tucks her in, making sure the vent above her door is open and angled towards her so the heater is pointing at her bed. He still piles an extra blanket on top of her since the house is still relatively frigid. Outside, the night sky is perfectly clear, but the air is like ice, and smells like the coming snow. It's almost December - they're bound to get snow sometime soon. Castiel is looking forward to it actually. He loves the snow, and he's heard the East Coast has some of the heaviest.

                Anna sticks her tongue out at him as he tucks her in and he flicks her cheek in response, twitching the blanket over her face so she has to sputter and claw her way out from under it again. "No waking me up before eight at least," Castiel orders her, and then switches off her light and closes her door, heading back downstairs.

                When he gets to the kitchen, Charlie is packing up the UNO game, grinning triumphantly, and Gabe is stuffing a handful of pretzels in his mouth glaring at her. It's obvious who the winner is. Kevin is still sitting at the kitchen table smiling proudly to himself about fixing the heater.

                Castiel can't help it. He yawns, long and loud, and when he does, all three of his friends look at him with raised eyebrows. "You can't seriously be tired," Gabe complains, "That's just weak."

                Cas stifles another yawn and scratches his hand through his hair. "I just haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately," he admits, sitting down next to Kevin once more.

                "Why not? Finals aren't for another few weeks, you don't have to stress yet," Charlie says with a smile, stuffing her UNO game into her tye-dye shoulder bag.

                "Are you kidding?" Kevin interjects, "My mom has been quizzing me for finals since September."

                "Yes, but, _Asian_ ," Gabe points out, waving a pretzel at Kevin, "If you don't score hundreds on all of your finals, you'll get your bed taken away."

                Kevin rolls his eyes. "You have no idea how right you are."

                "Is that why you can't sleep?" Charlie asks, "Do you not have a bed?"

                Castiel chuckles. "Yes, I have a bed," he says, "I've just been having these weird dreams."

                "Ooo! I love dream talks!" Charlie urges, sliding off the counter and sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Castiel like a child in a kindergarten classroom during story time, "What are they about?"

                Castiel huffs and scratches his head again, mussing up his already wild hair. "I...don't really know," he says, "Honestly, I've been having them since I got to Rail Pass, but they just keep getting weirder."

                "Well what happens?" Charlie coaxes, and Gabe throws a pretzel at the back of her head.

                "Leave the guy alone you hippie," he says, and Charlie flips him off over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off of Castiel.

                Cas shakes his head, waving his hand. "It's okay, it's fine, maybe it'll help to talk about them."

                "They're not about Dean Winchester are they?" Gabe asks, eyeing Cas skeptically. Castiel snorts and shakes his head. No, for once, his mind isn't flooded with thoughts of Dean.

                "Are they nightmares?" Kevin asks, and Cas glances at him, pursing his lips.

                "I don't think so?" he replies, unsure, "I mean, they're not pleasant, but I don't wake up screaming or anything."

                "But you can't fall back asleep?" Charlie asks.

                Cas shakes his head with a sigh, leaning back in his chair, scrubbing at his eyes tiredly. "I'm gonna be honest...I think that they're about Hautley."

                "Nathan? Or Elsa?" Gabe asks, suddenly intrigued.

                Castiel shrugs. "Both I think," he replies, "It's like...it's like, in the dreams, _I'm_ Nathan Hautley, and Elsa is dead in the woods, and I'm really sad and...I don't know. They're just depressing and weird."

                Charlie hums. "That _is_ weird...It's like you're cursed or something."

                Kevin laughs. "That's not dramatic at all."

                Gabe jumps down from the island counter and strolls over. "Maybe you're haunted. It's the ghost of Christmas past."

                Charlie rolls her eyes. "Cas is the furthest thing from a Scrooge," she argues, "No way the ghost of Christmas past would come and mess with him."

                "Plus it's only Thanksgiving," Kevin points out, "The ghost of Thanksgiving's past doesn't sound nearly as cool."

                Castiel chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "I pretty sure it's fair to say that I'm _not_ haunted. I think I just heard too many stories about Nathan Hautley since moving here, and now they're stuck in my head."

                Gabe clucks his tongue. "Well, there's only one way to find out for sure."

                "Find out what? If he's haunted?" Charlie asks.

                "Mm-hmm," Gabe nods, looking between the three of them, "Ghost hunt."

 

*       *       *

 

                John's been gone for a couple of days. Dean has given up on really caring where his father disappears to, but he'd hoped that they could at least have a Thanksgiving dinner together. The last time they'd truly had a holiday dinner as a family was when Mary was still alive. Dean barely remembers how warm it all felt. He doesn't know why he thought this year would be any different, what with Dean's leg still a bruised and blotchy mess, and Sam's head wound still healing a couple weeks after the incident in the kitchen.

                Instead, Thanksgiving Day rolls around and John hasn't been heard from, so Dean takes Sam to Hautley's Bend around dinner time and they eat cheap Chinese takeout and spit tofu cubes at each other since neither of them particularly like the bland white blocks.

                Dean can't help but think that this is a lot more fun than if John were around fucking up the holiday for them. This is probably for the better. He and Sam stay at the park for hours, shoving each other around and gossiping about Jess, whom Sam is still too shy to make a move on. Dean whaps the back of his head for that, insisting that he taught Sam better.

                They spend a good amount of Thanksgiving Break at Bobby and Ellen's. The Singers had invited Sam and Dean over for Thanksgiving dinner, but Dean had declined. They've been over for the holiday the past three years - he didn't want to intrude, no matter how much Ellen insisted it was okay.

                Sam sleeps soundly at the Singer household, content with the unconventional Thanksgiving he and Dean had shared despite the absence of pie, and Dean is comforted by the fact that he's kept Sam happy for a little while longer at least.

               

               An overwhelming sense of boredom leads Dean to hang out with Crowley, Gordon, Al, and Zach a few times out at Ghost Town. It's getting colder out, but Dean ignores it, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and taking long slow drags on his cigarette.

                He and his friends stay later each night during the break, and for the most part Dean tunes them out as they laugh and talk about how drunk they'd gotten last, and which girls they are planning on fucking before the end of senior year.

                It's the same shit they talk about every time they hang out. It gets old. But Dean doesn't have anywhere else to go.

                It's a couple nights before the end of the fall break when they're out at the train cars again just past midnight. The air is brisk and cold and smells of snow that Dean doesn't think will actually fall. The only light comes from a piping hot gas camping lantern that Gordon brought along, despite the half moon clear in the sky. The tips of their cigarettes and joints glow like candle wicks just out of reach of the lantern's light.

                John had returned that morning without explanation as to where he'd been - his mussed state and rancid breath suggested another bender, but Dean just let it go and watched his father stumble into his bedroom and close the door.

                He'd left Sam home with John tonight, but his father was out cold, so Sam would be safe for now at least. Dean does not want to go back there - the house is claustrophobic with their dad there. He and Sam are silent as the dead sneaking around the place to avoid waking him. They only have about four dishes left unbroken in the kitchen.

                The train car seems colder than usual tonight, and Dean curls his toes in his boots in an attempt to keep them warm as Alastair stands and pulls a bag out of his back pocket. 

                "What's that shit? Did you bring coke again?" Gordon asks, eyeing it as Alastair opens the package.

                He gives a feral grin and looks straight at Dean, eyes glittering in the lantern's light. "I thought we'd try something different tonight," Al says, his eyes locked on Dean's, like he's challenging him to say no. As if Dean would say no anyway - he's such a pushover. And why the fuck does Alastair always do that? Look at Dean that way? Dean wishes he could just tell Al to fuck off.

                "Is that LSD?" Crowley snorts, tucking his flask away in the inner pocket of his pea coat and sitting forward.

                "Oh Fergus, you do know your stuff," Al chuckles, pulling  out a small jar with a dropper, and a handful of hard candies that look like Smarties.

                Dean swallows a little. He's never tried LSD before, but it's not as if he hasn't tried other things with his friends. The cocaine hadn't been the end of it, after all.

                "Where'd you get that?" Zach asks, smiling a little. It's an ugly smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes. He's always had a cold exterior.

                "I have my sources," Al replies, lining up ten Smarties on the floor, uncaring that they're going to be eating them in a few minutes and the floor is dirty. Dean watches in mild interest as Al takes the dropper of what he assumes is liquid LSD and places drops on each of the little candies.

                "What ever happened to the good old days when we just smoked a spliff and called it good?" Crowley asks as he watches Alastair work.

                Gordon shakes his head. "Man, that's old news. We may as well try this shit while we're young."

                Al gives an approving nod. "Consider it a gift from me to you."

                He scoops up the LSD laced Smarties and hands two to each person, stopping in front of Dean last and brushing his fingers over Dean's palm as he lays the candies in his hand. Dean bites back a snotty comment and settles on glaring a little. Al just seems amused and sits back down again. He raises his two candies.

                "Bottoms up," he says, tossing them back.

                Crowley sighs beside Dean. "Cheers," he mutters, and eats his own. Gordon and Zach eat theirs one at a time, and Dean hesitates for a few seconds before sighing a little. _What the hell_ , right?

                He enjoys the taste of the Smarties while he can, swallows, and waits for the LSD to take effect.

                He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until, an immeasurable number of minutes later, he opens them again and his heart skips a beat. All his friends are still there, yes, and the cold is still bitter and biting. But the lantern is... _moving_. Not the lantern itself perhaps, but rather, the light it emits. It swirls and wriggles like worms and waves in the darkness, like a lion's mane as it shakes its head and roars in silence.

                The light is streaked in color, red and blue and green and purple, twisting together like a color wheel in elementary school art classes. Dean stares, eyes wide, glassy, unblinking, like if he blinks the colors will disappear.

                He has to admit - of all the drugs Al has persuaded them into doing, this is without a doubt his favorite. He doesn't hear his friends for a moment, his ears ringing, too zoned out staring at the colors, twinkles of light, reaching out toward him like tendrils, like fairies. And he just feels silly for thinking that. _Fairies, really?_

                It's only when Crowley punches him in the shoulder that he snaps out of it. All his friends are staring at him, and when he mutters "What?" they all burst out laughing.

                "Dude, you're tripping hardcore, aren't you?" Gordon snorts, blinking a few times like he too is seeing colors. Dean stares at him for a moment, and then lets his eyes jump from one friend to the next, finally landing on Al, who has a too-mischievous-for-comfort smirk on his face. Dean swallows, lubricating his dry throat from where his mouth had been hanging open.

                "What did you do?" Dean asks, trying his best to glare. God, but he really despises Alastair.

                Al lets out a nasally laugh and taps his grossly-long fingernail against the small bottle of liquid LSD. "I may have dosed you with a bit more than the rest of us," he admits, sounding not a bit sorry for it, "I figured a guy like Dean Winchester could certainly handle it."

                Dean lets that settle into his brain for a moment, trying to focus on Alastair's sneering face through the too-happy colors swirling in the darkness. "You son of a bitch," he mutters, giving up on mustering a good glare, despite the fact that Dean fucking Winchester is one of the best at doling out frightening death glares to just about everyone. He doesn't have a bad reputation for nothing, after all.

                His friends laugh again, as if it's the most hilarious thing. Maybe under different circumstances, it would be, but right now, the colors are becoming overwhelming, and nauseating, and his skin is crawling like the little waves of fairy dust are reaching out and brushing across his arms and exposed neck. He rubs at his jaw and slumps back against the wall of the train car, half-heartedly throwing a woodchip at Al and missing by a long shot.

                He tunes out his friends as they begin to chatter amongst themselves again, laughing about what they're hallucinating at the moment, despite the fact that they're all seeing basically the same thing. Everything is more hilarious when one is high, Dean supposes.

                His mind wanders, thinking about Sammy at home with John, thinking about school and his shitty grades, thinking about his fists connecting with some cheekbones. He hopes that Sam is alright, that he's sitting in his room reading a stupid textbook on whales, that he's staying out of John's way if his father has woken up and wandered out for another beer that he doesn't need.

                Dean worries - but he always worries. He knows Sam can take care of himself...but Dean still worries.

                However, his vision is swirling, twirling, diving and flying, colors dancing like in _Pocahontas_ (and he'll never admit that he actually likes that movie) and he fears that if he tried to venture home now, he'd trip and fall into some mental fairy realm where he'd sprout wings and have such a bad reaction to the LSD that he'd scratch the skin straight off his back trying to pull imaginary wings out.

                Yeah, he really has no idea how LSD works...but he imagines he would have bad luck with it if he tried to wander off alone. When has Dean ever had _good_ luck?

                His friend's voices become white noise, and the pitch of their vocals hit the swirling colors like vibrations, and the colors bounce off the sound waves like someone swatting at a fly. Dean stares, entranced, and when deeper swirls of blue begin to twist free, his mind wanders to Castiel Novak.

                And lord knows why, but thinking about Castiel in this moment calms him down, makes him feel like he won't succumb to a bad trip. Castiel is a comforting presence, even as the blue-eyed boy sets his jaw and allows Dean and his friends to punch and punch.

                There's just something about him that makes Dean hate himself, but want to be better at the same time.

                He pays special attention to the blue swirls of color in his hallucinations now, hoping to keep hold of thoughts of Castiel. While sober, Dean tries to avoid thinking about Novak as much as possible, because it's wrong. But right now, his mind clings to it.

                He loses track of time. Before he knows it, a few hours have passed, and his back is sore and ass numb from sitting in the same position for so long. The half-moon has dipped lower in the sky and now shines directly into the train car, adding more sparkling silver swirls to the mix. Dean blinks a few times, and despite the fact that he's heard trips last for hours and hours, he can feel himself coming down just slightly, enough that he can focus more.

                Conveniently, when he brings himself back to reality, Gordon and Zach are standing to leave. They seem fine now - their doses of LSD were lighter than Dean's, which Dean is kind of pissed about.

                "We're heading out - you guys coming?" Gordon asks, eyeing the remaining three of them. Zach looks at Dean and snickers a little, probably because Dean is still high and the evidence is all over his glassy-eyed face. Dean gives his best glare, but it ends up as more of a grimace.

                Crowley clears his throat and stands. "I'll be accompanying you, if you don't mind," he says, straightening his coat. He looks down at Dean as Dean forces himself to straighten up and position himself to relieve some of the soreness of his tight back. "You going to be alright, Blow?" Crowley asks him, eyeing him with slight concern and amusement.

                Dean rolls his eyes, waving his hand. "Go," he says, "I'm fine. Just gonna let it pass for a while longer."

                "I'll be here for a bit - I'll look out for him," Alastair states, as if that's comforting at all. Crowley seems to hesitate, but then he shrugs and jumps out of the train car. Gordon grabs his lantern by the handle to avoid burning himself and cuts off the flow of gas until the light flickers out. The darkness is shocking at first, but as their eyes adjust, the moonlight offers plenty of light to see by. Dean is actually relieved that the lantern is gone - he sees less colors this way, becomes more lucid, more sober. The less time he has to spend with Al here alone, the better, and as soon as he sobers enough, he's going home.

                Gordon and Zach jump down without another word and follow after Crowley. Dean listens to their crunching footsteps fade over the frozen ground, and then he and Al sit in silence for several long uncomfortable minutes. He and Alastair have never been particularly close, although Al seems to like to make Dean as unnerved as possible whenever he can. But Dean supposes, despite the creepiness, that this guy is harmless.

                The silence doesn't come as a surprise.

                Dean just pulls one leg up to his chest, circling his arms around it, leaving the other leg bent and sprawled on the floor, staring at the moon out the open train car. He can feel Al staring at him while lighting up a cigarette, but Dean ignores him.

                He's craving a cigarette too, but he doesn't plan on staying long enough to smoke one, despite the fact that the moon still looks like a beating heart, pulsing out colorful waves of drug-induced light. He'll smoke on his way home. Maybe that will keep him focused, sober him up, because he's still pretty fucking high.

                Alastair's nasally voice shatters the silence, a little dry from his cigarette. "So, you're gay right?" he asks casually.

                Dean's forehead crunches up, and he turns his eyes on Al. "Excuse me?"

                "You're gay," Al states, "That's what people tell me."

                Dean just stares at him for a moment, annoyed. "Bisexual," he answers carefully, "That's old news."

                Alastair hums in thought, pulling in another drag. Dean doesn't take his eyes off the guy. "So you like boys as much as girls, then? Do you have a preference?"

                Dean swallows dryly, a little annoyed and a little pissed. He scratches his forehead. "Why do you want to know?"

                Al shrugs. "I suppose I'm just curious, is all. We've never really talked like this, Dean."

                Dean doesn't like the way Alastair says his name, but swallows back a snotty retort. Instead he rolls his eyes and looks back at the moon. "I like both genders the same - it depends on the person," he mutters in reply, "You know there are Wikipedia pages for this shit."

                Al chuckles a little. "I'd rather hear it from someone with experience - a primary source."

                Dean doesn't afford that a response, hoping to let the subject drop. But of course Alastair wouldn't just let it go like that, the prick.

                "So...you have experience then?" he asks.

                Dean turns his best glare back on Alastair, ignoring a small tendril of swirling color he hallucinates rising from the glowing tip of Al's cigarette. "I'd rather not talk about this," he growls.

                Alastair surprises him with a throaty laugh. "No need to be shy, Dean," he says, "It's just polite conversation."

                Dean grits his teeth, remaining silent again.

                "So you've sucked dick before then, I take it?" Al presses on.

                Dean's eyes actually widen at that, unsure whether he's actually hearing this. Who the fuck does Al think he is, the freak? "Dude, fuck off."

                Al grins, not at all discouraged. "You taken it up the ass? You seem like the submissive type," he continues casually, sucking on his cigarette, goading Dean on, "Am I right?"

                Dean wants to punch Alastair right in his smug face. He's put people in the hospital for saying less than what Alastair is saying right now. But he's too out of it and high at the moment to bother. He scoffs, shoving himself angrily to his feet. "You're like, nine kinds of fucked up dude. It's none of your fucking business," Dean growls, heading toward the opening of the train car, "I'm out of here."

                Just as he's about to jump down though, swaying a little to avoid the imaginary blots of color in the air coming at him, Alastair's bony hand wraps around his arm to stop him. Dean didn't even hear him get up.

                "Wait, don't go," Al says, pulling him back into the car, perhaps too roughly, "I'll drop the subject. Let's just relax."

                Dean tries to jerk his arm out of Al's grasp. "No dude, fuck you. I'm leaving."

                Alastair doesn't let go though. Instead, he smiles a sharp grin, disgusting and eerie. Dean reaches up to peel the skeletal fingers off his arm, but Al only grips his arm tighter.

                Suddenly, he's jerking Dean back into the shadows of the train car and spinning him around. And before Dean's intoxicated mind catches up to what's happening, Alastair's lips are on his and he's kissing him hungrily. Dean freezes up as Al kisses him, and is so shocked that he just stands there stiffly for a couple seconds.

                When he finally realizes what's happening, he growls in the back of his throat, shoving against Al to get him away. He opens his mouth to snap out a couple insults, but Alastair takes the opportunity to plunge his tongue inside, invading Dean's mouth. Al's tongue is wet and slimy and cold and Dean wants to vomit right then and there as it probes his mouth. Instead, he does the first thing that he can think of.

                He bites down. Hard.

                Al howls in pain as Dean bites into his tongue. Dean doesn't bite it completely off, although he wants to - _God,_ he wants to. But he does taste blood as his teeth sink into the bitter-tasting muscle. Al stumbles back, choking and shouting, his tongue hanging out of his mouth and covered in blood, hands coming up and prodding at his lips.

                "What the _fuck_ is wrong with you!" Dean shouts, spitting out the blood in his mouth and turning to walk away again.

                But he barely makes it two steps before Alastair is grabbing him once more. Dean tries to shake him off again, but this time, Al is holding him tighter, and he's _angry_. There's blood running out of his mouth, and he's shouting something that Dean can't understand because Al's tongue doesn't have any function at the moment.

                Dean takes a swing with his free arm, but before his knuckles connect with Al's face, Alastair catches his wrist and twists it up painfully behind Dean's back. Dean feels something _pop_ in his shoulder and he cries out in pain. Al takes the moment of opportunity and shoves Dean to the floor.

                Dean's forehead connects with the wood, and he blacks out for several seconds, his mind a ringing daze filled with swirling acid colors and the feeling of blood running down his face.

                When he comes to, Al is sitting on top of him, pressing him flat to the floor, holding him facedown. Dean is dizzy from the blow to the head, but he's a strong guy. He bucks up against Alastair with every ounce of strength he has left, but Al is surprisingly strong, _stronger_ than Dean.

                "Get the fuck off me!" Dean shouts, "Alastair, let me go!"

                But Al doesn't relent. And when Dean feels a large, bony hand sliding over his jean-clad ass and squeezing hard, he begins to realize just what's happening here.

                _Oh, no no no, this is_ not _happening right now_ , Dean thinks in shock.

                Alastair has always been a freak, has always given Dean the creeps. But _this_? Al can't be _this_ fucked up, can he? This shit doesn't happen in real life.

                Only, it _does_. And it's happening right now. Dean's stomach drops when he hears the tell-tale sound of a zipper, and he realizes Al is undoing his pants. When Al's hand snakes around and very deliberately cups Dean's dick through his jeans, Dean sucks in a sharp breath and growls in rage. The first tendrils of fear tug at his heart.

                "Stop! Get the fuck off!" he screams, thrashing and writhing beneath Alastair with every ounce of strength he has left. He ignores the colors exploding in front of his eyes from the acid trip, and the way his heart feels like it's going to tear out of his chest, it's beating so hard. His throat is raw from hyperventilating, and he tries to calm down, to get his wits about him, because this _can't_ be happening, and he just needs to get Al the _fuck_ off of him and get _out_ of here. Go home to Sammy and forget this all happened.

                Somehow, Al's skilled fingers pop the button and open the zipper on Dean's jeans, and Dean whimpers and stiffens as he feels Al's cold, clammy hand slide inside, right under his boxers, and wrap around his flaccid, uninterested dick, bare skin on skin. Dean jerks as Al squeezes too hard on the sensitive flesh, and he groans in pain when Al presses his thumbnail right into Dean's slit.

                It's too much. _Too much_. Dean swallows back the urge to vomit, because he really doesn't want to be laying facedown in his own puke, and fights as hard as he can. He never stops fighting, even when he feels Al pull his own dick out of his boxers and start rubbing it along the small of Dean's back. Dean's shirt has ridden up in his struggles, and he shivers and gags as he feels a blot of Al's precome smear onto his bare skin.

                Al is speaking to him, sounding angry but eerily calm, even though Dean can't really understand what he's saying because of his bloody, swollen tongue. And Dean's ears are ringing anyway as his panic slowly but surely escalates into hysteria. He's shouting things at Al, threats and curses and pleas, but he doesn't even understand them himself.

                Alastair's free hand goes to the waistband of Dean's jeans, and he starts to tug them down. He tries a couple times, but Dean is fighting hard, jerking this way and that, bucking up against his attacker, and Al seems to give up on trying to pull Dean's pants off. It seems Dean is making it too difficult with all his thrashing.

                Dean thinks maybe Al is going to give up altogether and just get off of him, but then he decides to try something else, and he starts to move. He begins to rub his stiff, leaking dick against Dean's backside, and as Al presses down harder, moaning in disgusting pleasure, Dean feels the hard member rubbing between the cheeks of his ass through his loose jeans. Dean gags and swallows back bile, his stomach twisting and turning with nausea as he lays there being violated.

                He tricks himself for a few minutes into believing that he's just having a bad trip, that he's hallucinating this. He's still seeing colors dancing in front of his eyes from the LSD, so maybe he's just hallucinating Al doing this to him right now. Maybe this is all just a really bad reaction to the acid, and once he comes down from the trip, he'll realize this is all just a figment of his sick imagination.

                But then, Al's hand slides up his shirt, and it feels too _real_. This is actually happening. _This is actually happening_.

                As Alastair continues to thrust against Dean's backside, setting up a steady pace, grunting in pleasure, his hand grazes over Dean's burn scars under his shirt. He stops for a second, trailing his fingers over the scars, and then, to Dean's horror, he pushes his shirt up, exposing the scars to the moonlight.

                Dean feels the first of his tears start to run out of his eyes as Al touches his scars, because this is _personal_. Being attacked the way Alastair is attacking him right now is certainly a violation, but exposing his deepest secret is _personal_. A dry sob escapes his throat as Al touches the scars, and the sound almost seems to turn Alastair on more. He feels Al blanket himself over Dean, still fondling Dean's uninterested dick beneath him, thrusting his hips harder and harder as he enjoys himself more and more.

                Dean's still fighting - fighting so hard the wood of the floor is slicing up his arms and chest, and his sides are cramping, and he doesn't even realize he's a crying, shaking mess of pitiful begging mixed with angry threats until Al's thrusts start to grow erratic as he edges closer to climax.

                His hand's movements on Dean's limp dick become jerky and painful, tugging too hard and too rough, and Al is gasping in his ear. Blood from his bitten tongue is dripping down onto Dean's neck, and Dean claws at the ground, trying to get away.

                A sound Dean doesn't recognize breaks free from his throat then, an animalistic scream of pain, when Al digs his too-long fingernails into Dean's scars, scraping into the scar tissue through his last few thrusts. Pain erupts across Dean's side through his scars, and it almost feels worse than when he was on fire. It's raw and agonizing, and Dean sobs out loud, in too much pain to be embarrassed by the fact that he's crying and thrashing like a pathetic little girl.

                And then Al comes. It's abrupt, and he bites down _hard_ on Dean's shoulder as he finds his release, breaking skin, gasping raggedly, thrusting a few more times through his orgasm. Dean feels Al's come splash across his bare back, seeping into his shirt, hot and sticky and nauseating, and the hand on Dean's dick tightens so much Dean's halfway convinced it's going to break off. But it's nothing compared to the pain in his side where Al's fingernails are tearing into his scars.

                Al collapses on top of him, crushing him to the floor as he catches his breath.

                Dean is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. He feels blood pouring out of his head where it hit the floor. His dazed brain tries to keep up with the present.

                He wants to just lay there, curl in a ball, and cry and vomit. But above all the hysteria, fear, agony, sickness, and pain he's feeling right now, he feels _angry_. His mind is still trying to catch up to the fact that this just happened. Was he just raped? Was that rape? Dean's not sure, but he doesn't care. It was _wrong_. So fucking wrong.

                He takes advantage of Al's momentary bliss post-climax, and he swings his good arm back. His elbow connects with the side of Al's head, and Al yelps, rolling off of Dean. Dean ignores the sticky feeling of come on his back as he scrambles up. His legs give out beneath him, weak and trembling, and he collapses back to the floor, covered in blood and sex and sweat and tears.

                Alastair rubs the side of his head where Dean's elbow hit, blinking hard and laughing a little, and as he tries to regain his footing to stand up, Dean _lunges_. He's still crying, but these are angry tears now. He's blind with rage. He jumps on top of Al, trying his best to ignore Al's dick still hanging out of his pants, and he swings. Dean lands punch after punch, hitting Al's hands away as Al tries to push him off. Dean ignores the colors swirling in his vision. They're angry colors, black and red. So much _red_. He's not sure how much of the red is an acid hallucination, and how much is blood.

                He keeps hitting until Al stops laughing, and is just a gurgling mess on the floor. He keeps hitting until even the gurgling stops. Dean feels Alastair's nose break under his fists, and teeth cracking, but he can't stop hitting, can't stop seeing red, can't stop crying.

                When Al's hand drops limply away from where he's gripping Dean's shirt, Dean finally freezes in place. He stares down at Alastair beneath him, a bloody unconscious mess. Al's chest is moving up and down - he's still breathing. Dean wishes he wasn't. But Alastair isn't worth going to prison for murder over.

                Dean's breathing hard. His ears are ringing. For a moment or two, he really wants to die.

                He pushes himself to his feet, catching himself on the wall to keep from falling, and he's shaking so violently he's worried his bones might shatter. He stares down at Alastair, and then spits once at the guy, disgusted and hurt and angry and ashamed. But all he wants to do is get the fuck out of here. He just wants to go home.

                He ignores the feeling of blood running down his face and arms and torso, and he ignores the feeling of Alastair's tacky come soaking into the back of his shirt. He groans in pain as he drops down out of the train car on shaking legs, fingers trembling as he struggles to zip up his pants again.

                Wiping tears from his eyes, he takes off through the trees, not even paying attention to where he's going. He just wants to get as far away from Ghost Town as possible.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel tilts his head back and exhales into the icy cold night, watching the cloud of fog his breath makes dissolve up towards the tree tops. Gabriel is leading the pack, with Kevin close behind, and Charlie and Cas are hanging back, hugging themselves against the cold and breathing in the smell of the coming snow.

                "I think my boogers are frozen," Charlie mumbles, sniffling a few times and wiggling her nose.

                Castiel chuckles, stepping over a protruding root on the forest floor. "Gabe, how much longer?" he calls out. The temperature is in the single digits and it's well past midnight already. They've been out here for hours, walking back and forth through the woods.

                Gabriel turns around, waving his flashlight at them. They squint and shield their eyes from the overly-bright beam. "You guys, this is a ghost hunt," he says, "You think Elsa is just gonna _appear_ in the first ten minutes?"

                "It's been over four hours," Charlie points out.

                Kevin shakes his head a little. "I'm so screwed," he complains, "My mom told me to be home by midnight!"

                Gabe coos and steps forward, patting Kevin on the cheek with a gloved hand. "The sacrifice will be worth it when we find Elsa Hautley."

                Charlie groans. "You know, I bet even Elsa's ghost has the common sense to find somewhere _warmer_ to haunt in the middle of the night."

                "Or the common sense to just _sleep_ ," Kevin adds, yawning and hugging himself.

                Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Ghosts don't sleep you idiots. Everyone knows that."

                Castiel raises an eyebrow. "Is that what it says in the official ghost handbook?"

                Gabe scoffs. " _No_ ," he replies, "But name _one_ horror movie where the ghost attacks during the _day_. They're nocturnal, I'm telling you."

                Charlie laughs. "Gabe, you're taking this ghost hunt way too seriously."

                "Hey!" Gabe retorts, waving his flashlight around, "If we want our boy Cas here to get some sleep, we're gonna have to solve his nightmare problem. And that starts with finding Elsa Hautley's ghost."

                Kevin stifles another yawn. "And when we find her?" he asks, "Have you thought that far ahead?"

                Gabriel pauses, chewing on his chapped lip thoughtfully. "Anybody know how to build one of those nifty traps they used in the _Ghostbusters_?"

                Castiel laughs, and all three of them look at him in surprise. He glances around. "What?"

                "Did you just understand a pop culture reference?" Charlie asks wonderingly. Castiel pauses and nods, and Charlie throws her arms around his shoulders with a cheer. "Yay! Our little baby's growing up!"

                Gabriel rolls his eyes, shining his flashlight into the trees, looking around. "If you guys don't keep it down, you'll scare her off," he whispers, shushing them, "She's got to be around here somewhere."

                Kevin rolls his eyes. "I'm gonna head back," he says, "My mom's already gonna lock me in my room for the next ten years for staying out this late." He turns and starts walking back towards town.

                "Hey, wait! Come on, man," Gabe whines, "We need all hands on deck here!" He steps in front of him when Kevin starts to walk away.

                Castiel's head snaps up as he hears a noise coming from the distance in the trees. His friends don't notice.

                "I swear to God, if you get me grounded Gabe, I'll throw away your entire candy stash," Kevin grumbles, trying to step around him.

                The noise sounds again, closer this time, and Cas peers into the trees, squinting. He sees nothing but darkness.

                "I'm not gonna get you grounded bro!" Gabe says, raising his hand up like he's taking an oath, "I _promise_ , okay? Swear on the candy stash itself."

                "Guys?" Castiel says when he hears the noise again, growing ever closer. They don't notice.

                "You've probably _already_ gotten me grounded," Kevin argues, "Please can we just go?"

                "Guys?" Castiel says again, cocking his ear towards where he hears the sound deep in the woods. It sounds like someone running, but there are weird gasps too, like a drowning person coming up for air.

                "Can you just wait like ten more minutes?" Gabe offers, "We can have one last look around and if we don't find anything, we can go."

                Kevin rolls his eyes with a weary sigh. " _Ten_ minutes. No more," he says, "Then I really have to go. It's almost four in the morning."

                "Guys!" Castiel cuts in, louder this time, and Kevin and Gabe both shut up and look at him. "Do you hear that?"

                All of them are quiet, listening for a moment.

                "Hear what?" Charlie asks, at the same time as Kevin says, "I don't hear anything."

                Cas shushes them. "Just listen," he says, looking into the trees, "I heard something."

                The second he says that, a voice cries out from deep within the trees. It's not very loud or very long, almost a little yelp like someone stepping on a thumbtack. Charlie squeaks in surprise, grabbing onto Castiel's arm in fear.

                "What the hell was that?" she whispers urgently, squeezing tight. They all stand there frozen in place.

                There are heavy footsteps running through the trees, and when Castiel realizes the steps are coming towards them, he shrinks back closer to his friends, a little scared. Is this a ghost? Was Gabe right?

                They all stand stuck in place, barely breathing as they hear the footsteps coming closer. Whoever is coming is running _fast_ , breathing hard, deep gasping breaths that Castiel can hear from where they are. There are tree branches crunching and crashing, and the frozen ground absorbs the sound of the footsteps loudly.

                Gabriel lifts up his flashlight and points it into the trees in the direction of the noises. Charlie slaps the light back down. "Are you crazy?" she whispers angrily, "It could be a serial killer!"

                "It could be Elsa!" Gabe whispers back, grinning through his obvious fear.

                "God, gimme that!" Charlie snaps, grabbing his flashlight. She fumbles with it and attempts to turn it off, but before she can douse the light, the footsteps crash and pound their way through the trees right in front of them. Charlie screams as a large, dark figure comes breaking through the trees into the tiny clearing they're standing in. The figure skids to a halt at the last second, falling back before it runs into Castiel and his friends, and Cas watches as the person scuffles back across the ground.

                All four friends stare in shock at the person, frozen in place, and Charlie lifts the flashlight, more out of fear than anything, shining the beam directly into the newcomer's eyes.

                Castiel suddenly can't breathe. It's Dean. It's _Dean_. What the hell is he doing here?

                The light from the flashlight reflects off a massive stream of blood coating the side of Dean's face, and there are tear tracks streaking his dirty cheeks. He has a wild look in his eyes like he's staring into the sun and his gaze keeps darting around from one person to the next. He's gasping for air, hoarse and horrible sounding, and even from here, Castiel can see that he's shaking violently, covered from head to toe in dirt and blood and sweat.

                He looks _awful_ , like a zombie, bloodied and hurt and panicked. His pupils are blown so wide Castiel can barely see a sliver of that gorgeous green he's come to love about Dean's eyes. Dean's gaze darts around wildly for a few moments, and Castiel hears Charlie utter a small "Oh my God," as all four of them take in Dean's bloody face.

                And then Dean's eyes fall upon Castiel. Their gazes lock, and they stare at each other. Dean is looking at him, but it's almost like he's looking right through him, not seeing him at all. What the hell happened to him?

                All at once, Dean is scrambling up from the ground, standing before them, and he stares at Castiel for a very long moment. As he stares, his breathing slows down, just a little bit, like he's calming down.

                But then, Dean looks away, and he starts running again, shoving his way through the four of them and taking off through the trees once more.

                "Dean, wait!" Castiel calls out before he knows what he's doing. His brain is screaming at him to _help_. Dean looks like he was attacked by a bear. He looks like he's under the influence of something, and he's hurt and scared and panicked. He doesn't stop when Cas calls him.

                Castiel and his friends stare after Dean as he disappears into the trees again, and they listen as his footsteps crash and crunch away.

                "What the actual _fuck?"_ Kevin breathes when Dean's footsteps are finally no longer audible. Castiel realizes he's breathing hard, clutching his stomach, and he glances at his friends. Charlie lets out a huge breath, bending over and holding herself up with her hands on her knees.

                " _Jesus_ that scared the shit out of me!" she exclaims, sucking in a few more breaths.

                "Can we go home _now_?" Kevin asks shakily, eyeing Gabriel. Gabe is standing there with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide.

                "Yeah," he squeaks, "Yeah, we can go home. I think that's enough ghost hunting for one night."

 

*       *       *

 

                When Dean stumbles out of the woods into his backyard, he collapses by the garden hose and immediately vomits. He's managed not to puke yet, despite the colors and the residual feeling of Al's dick on his back and the pain vibrating through his body. He gags and coughs, vomiting mostly bile. He hasn't eaten anything in hours, apart from the two Smarties with the acid drops on them. Despite this, he kneels there on all fours retching and heaving for a good five minutes.

                By now, his tears have stopped flowing, to his relief. His face is still sticky and wet and salty with blood and tears, but no new tears are going to fall. He won't let them. He doesn't cry - that's something Dean just doesn't do. Embarrassment is starting to sink in with the more time that passes. Al attacked him, and Dean had cried like a fucking baby. Above all - above being overpowered by Alastair, above getting stupidly high, above _everything_ \- Dean crying like that in front Al was the most humiliating thing to happen to him tonight.

                Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting the last of the vomit from his tongue, he climbs shakily to his feet, holding onto the garden hose reel as another wave of nausea threatens to push its way up from his throat. He’s dizzy, but he’s not sure whether that’s from the LSD, or from his head wound. He touches his trembling fingertips gently to the edges of the wound. It doesn’t seem terribly deep, just swollen into a sizeable lump from the impact his head made with the train car floor.

                His heart is beating so fast it’s hurting his chest and he briefly considers whether it’s common for eighteen-year-old's to die from heart attacks as he makes his way into his house. It’s almost four in the morning according to the clock on the oven in the kitchen, and the house is dark and silent. He tries to be as quiet as possible as he stumbles into the living room, but he’s gasping and crashing into things in a pitifully hysterical state.

                He needs to calm down. The last thing he wants is for John to come out of his room and find Dean like this. That would be just _peachy_.

                He doesn’t really think past the sudden desperate need to get _out of these clothes_. His jeans are a little torn and covered in both his and Al’s blood, and the back of his shirt is soiled with come that’s now frozen to his skin from the icy cold night. Dean gags again as he pulls his shirt off and the fabric sticks to his back, and he has to swallow repeatedly before he vomits again all over the living room carpet.

                He stumbles over to the fireplace that they never use against the back wall and throws his shirt in, his pants and boxers quickly following. He kicks off his boots and socks and throws them off to the side. He reaches into the fireplace briefly to fish his Zippo out of the pocket of his jeans, and it takes him a couple tries to flick the lighter on with his shaking, unsteady hands. Once it finally lights, he sets his clothing on fire, watching it go up in flames.

                When he’s sure the flames are going to eat his clothes away completely, he takes a step back from the fireplace, standing there naked as the day he was born, staring into the fire. He sees nothing but red in the flames, dancing and pulsing outwards. He’s not sure how much of it is the acid still taking its toll on Dean’s mind, but it’s only making him feel worse. He has no idea what he’s feeling right now, but if there were any opportune moment in his life during which he had every right to think about killing himself, this would be it.

                He either wants to die, or kill somebody else. He wants to go back out to that train car and set Alastair on fire, just like Al did to Castiel. Al deserves it, he really does, the crazy fuck.

                But Dean doesn’t move. He stands there shaking and breathing hard, naked and bloody, and he has no idea how long he’s frozen in place like that. He’s seeing red, but he wants to see blue. He tries his best to think about Castiel, because thinking of Cas had calmed him down earlier in the train car while he and his friends were tripping acid, before…

                Dean has to remember to breathe even. To think of blue. His jumbled, agonized brain can’t think clear thoughts right now, so he just thinks _blue_. _Blue, blue, blue_ , the color echoing in his head, and he calms down marginally.

                He doesn’t hear the footsteps coming down the hall.

                “Ew, gross Dean!” Sam’s voice exclaims from behind him, but Dean barely registers it. He just stares at the fire and wishes it was blue. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, he knows Sam just discovered him standing ass-naked in the middle of the living room, but it doesn’t seem to matter right now.

                “Dean?” Sam asks hesitantly, but Dean doesn’t move, just focuses on breathing in and out, existing in red and blue, the colors warring with each other in his brain. He distantly hears Sam’s footsteps coming towards him, and his little brother appears beside him, looking up at his face.

                “Jesus, Dean, what happened to you?” Sam exclaims, and when he grabs Dean’s arm to shake him once, it jolts Dean back to reality and he blinks, eyes dropping to Sam’s face.

                Sam is a portrait of concern and alarm, and Dean just stares at him as Sam reaches over and snatches the thin blanket Mary Winchester knitted before she died from off the back of the couch, wrapping it around Dean’s naked waist and knotting it so it doesn’t fall.

                “Sorry Sammy, did I wake you up?” Dean hears himself ask, and his voice cracks hoarsely.

                “No, the smoke did,” he says, stepping over to the fireplace and turning a knob, “You have to open the flue.”

                Dean swallows hard and nods, noticing for the first time how smoky the room is. His eyes are burning.

                “Why are you burning your clothes?” Sam asks, coming back over and reaching up to tilt Dean’s face towards the light, getting a better look at his gashed forehead, “What the hell happened? Was it dad?”

                Dean grits his teeth, unable to stop the full-bodied shiver the rolls through him. “No,” he replies, and leaves it at that.

                Sam stares at him for a long moment, and then takes his arm. “Come on,” he says, dropping his questions for now, “Let’s get you cleaned up. You look like shit.”

                Dean laughs once, humorlessly, feeling that tickle in his nose that happens right before you cry again. He grits his teeth, staving off the tears. He’s never been happier to see Sammy in his life. He walks numbly with his brother back to the bathroom, and glances at John’s door as they pass it.

                “He’s not here,” Sam provides Dean’s questioning glance, “He left earlier, didn’t say where he was going. So probably The Roadhouse.”

                Dean nods again, sighing as his heartbeat starts to slow down. He’s not shaking as badly anymore. Having Sam here is good. It helps. Now if only Castiel were here too, Dean would be complete. Dean would feel so much better.

                Wait. Was that Castiel in the woods? Did Dean hallucinate that? Why was Castiel in the woods in the middle of the night? Dean must have imagined seeing him there. He couldn’t possibly have been there.

                Sam reaches in and turns on the shower, and then gives Dean a gentle push towards it. “Wash off,” he says, “Then you’re telling me what happened.”

                _The hell I am_ , Dean thinks to himself, but he says nothing, just climbs mutely into the shower and drops the blanket from around his waist on the floor. Sam leaves the bathroom, allowing Dean some privacy, but Dean doesn’t _want_ that. He doesn’t want to be alone right now.

                “Sammy?” he calls out weakly, and a moment later, Sam pokes his head back into the bathroom, keeping his eyes away from the shower until the clear curtain fogs up enough that he can’t see Dean’s naked form.

                “Yeah?”

                Dean swallows, awkwardly cradling the shampoo bottle in his hands. “Can you stay?” he asks, and Sam just looks at him strangely for a moment.

                “Sure Dean,” he finally says then, wandering over and sitting down on the toilet seat, reaching into a drawer next to him and pulling out the first aid kit.

                Dean relaxes with his brother’s presence next to him, and he tries his best not to gag as he feels cold, dry come slowly rinsing off his back in the spray of the shower. He winces when the hot water hits the deep bite mark on the back of his shoulder, and dares to look down at his scars on his side. There are five deep and distinct half-moon cuts in his scars where Al dug his fingernails in.

                Dean places a shaking hand gently over the marks, nearly whimpering as phantom pains start to flare up. Swallowing back a fresh urge to cry, he scrubs his hair vigorously with shampoo, and rinses himself of sweat and blood and come, ignoring the twinges of pain coming from his shoulder where something had popped earlier.

                Sam turns his back when Dean steps out of the shower, until Dean can get a towel around his waist. When he steps up to the mirror to examine the gash on his forehead, Sam gets a look at the extent of his injuries. Dean hears him pull in a little gasp that he tries to hide as he sees the fingernail marks in Dean’s scars.

                “Dean…” Sam breathes, but Dean can’t look at him. Sam pulls himself together and hands Dean a Band-Aid. “Are you gonna tell me what happened to you?” Sam’s voice is tight.

                Dean pulls open the wrapper of the Band-Aid. “No,” he replies quietly, with finality, and secures the Band-Aid on his gashed forehead after reassuring himself that he doesn’t need stitches. The Band-Aid has little prints of Saturn on it. It’s dorky, and very _Sam_ , and it puts Dean in a marginally better mood.

                Sam drops the subject, and he steps out of the bathroom for a minute, coming back with a fresh shirt and pajama pants for Dean. Dean gives him a weak smile in thanks, and Sam leaves so Dean can change. Dean doesn’t even dare look at the bite mark on his shoulder before pulling his shirt on. He _very_ quickly and very nauseatingly glances at his dick before pulling on his pants, examining for damage. There are finger-shaped bruises actually wrapping his shaft, and he didn’t even know having a bruised dick was _possible_.

                All at once, he’s diving towards the toilet and throwing the lid up, vomiting and retching, his stomach cramping as he pukes. _God_ , he can’t believe this is happening. It all feels like a dream, though that could just be the acid still working its way out of his system.

                He rinses his mouth and doesn’t dare look in the mirror again as he turns and leaves the bathroom. He just needs to sleep. He needs to sleep, and in the morning, everything will be better. He doesn’t go to his own room. He goes to Sam’s. He’ll swear to the grave that it’s because he’s worried John will come home, but really, Dean just doesn’t want to be alone. He can’t be alone right now.

                He curls up next to Sam, gripping the amulet Sam gave him in one hand, and Sam’s wrist in his other, grounding himself there in the present. He doesn’t sleep that night. Even after Sam dozes off beside him, facing him this time, Dean can’t sleep. He just sees red and blue dancing before his eyes, swirling and colliding, mixing with the glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling.

                He doesn’t know how he’s feeling right now. Angry, lost, sick, hurt, numb. He doesn’t know what to call this. But he knows one thing. He wants to kill something. He wants someone’s head on a stick. He doesn’t even care who it is at this point. He just wants to draw blood.


	10. Hothead

It’s been two days. Two days since Dean’s been able to sleep. He lays there at night, in Sam’s bed because he doesn’t want to be alone in his, staring at the ceiling with the glowing stars and planets and moons, and he thinks. He thinks about everything, except for what happened at Ghost Town. He can’t think about that.

                Since he can’t seem to make himself stop thinking altogether, he chooses to think about _everything_ else. He thinks about his grades, and Castiel Novak, and Sam’s girl dilemma, and even his mother. Ever since The Accident, he’s been pretty diligent about  _not_ thinking about Mary. But, although thinking about her makes him sad, he’d rather do that than think about something _else_ and vomit his guts up again.

                His scars _hurt_. They ache and burn and throb like a whole other being strapped stubbornly to his side. He can’t tell how much of the pain is real from the fingernail marks, and how much of it is in his head. He remembers the way his whole house used to smell like tangerines after his mother took a bath, and a sharp stab of pain shoots up from the scars on his thigh to the ones on his ribs. He remembers pulling the cushions off the couch when his mother lost her wedding ring, finding it wedged next to a couple Cheerios and a pen cap, and his scars flare up in pulses of aching burn that travel to the very tips of his fingers. He remembers the smell of his mother’s burning chicken pot pie, eerily similar to the smell of burning hairspray, and he curls in on himself as the pain becomes too much to ignore.

                But he will not cry. He won’t do that, no matter how much it hurts. Especially not in front of Sam.

                Sam has been a godsend. He cooks for the both of them, meals that solely consist of instant noodles, toast, and canned baked beans since Sam doesn’t really know how to cook much else. Dean forces himself to smile as much as he can at his brother, and accepts whatever food he’s given, and swallows repeatedly when he feels like his stomach is going to reject it.

                Sam asks no questions about what happened in the woods. He doesn’t ask why Dean was standing naked in the living room burning his clothes. He doesn’t ask about the fingernail marks on his scars. And he doesn’t ask Dean why he won’t go sleep in his own room. Sam just accepts it all, and does his best to take care of Dean like Dean has been taking care of him all this time.

                And when John comes home on Sunday and demands to know what happened to Dean’s face, Sam lies and says Dean slipped in the shower, because Dean freezes up and doesn’t know how to respond to his father.

                By the time Monday rolls around and they’re meant to go back to school after Thanksgiving Break, and Dean’s gone his third straight night without more than twenty minutes of restless sleep, he’s got dark circles under his eyes like a drug addict. He has a dull, constant headache that Sam tells him is from sleep deprivation, and his stomach always feels like it has a rock in it no matter how little he eats.

                He’s done nothing but think for three nights straight. And a switch has flipped in his brain. He’s _angry_. So angry he can feel it in his teeth, an ache like cavities, like chewing on tinfoil. He’s so angry he’s curled his hands into fists hard enough that he has half-moon indents on his palms from his fingernails.

                He needs to hit something.

                He needs to _kill_ something.

                He needs to hurt _someone_.

                He almost breaks his cell phone when he sees that he has a few missed calls and texts from Crowley and Gordon, because thinking about them makes him mad. Everything makes him mad. The way his toothbrush accidentally caught his lip and pinched it for a moment this morning made him _mad_. The way John left his dirty dish in the sink last night, and now the food’s all crusted to it and dry, makes Dean _mad_. The cold weather and the feeling of it hitting his tired skin makes him _mad_. And the fact that he’s out of cigarettes and doesn’t have time to go buy more before school starts this morning _really_ makes him mad.

                Sam senses his mood and stays out of his way, although Dean would never take it out on him. He’s not their father, after all. He just ruffles Sam’s hair, and leaves the house without a word, clenching his fists that desperately need to connect with some faces.

                He’s late (which pisses him off too) so he takes the woods to school, and passing by The Docks is unavoidable. He stops at the edge of the forest when he reaches the school, because he didn’t think this far ahead. He didn’t think about what he would do when he saw Alastair. Dean knows what he _wants_ to do. He wants to skin him alive, and snap every bone in his body nice and slow. But he can’t do that. And he hasn’t allowed himself to think about Ghost Town or Alastair in the past few days since…

                And now, he’s standing here at the edge of the trees, smelling the cigarette smoke in the air, so angry he can feel his blood circulating, and he doesn’t know if he can keep walking. Because what if Al is at The Docks right now? Dean imagines that Al probably wouldn’t have told their friends what he did to Dean. And Dean’s _certainly_ not going to tell them, or _anyone_ for that matter. So what is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to explain to his friends why he suddenly doesn’t want to be on the same _planet_ as Alastair, let alone sitting in the same room?

                But he doesn’t have to explain anything. At least not yet. When he finally forces himself to nut up and keep walking, he can’t help but glance at The Docks. Alastair isn’t there. It’s just Crowley and Zach sitting there, and when Crowley sees him, he waves him over. Dean stops walking, torn between wanting to run into the school, and bumming a cigarette off of Crowley. His hands are shaking from nicotine withdrawal.

                Sighing, angry with himself and with every living thing, he turns and heads for The Docks. Crowley sees the expression on his face, and instantly hands him his flask. Dean accepts it, not even caring what’s in it, and takes a long swig. It doesn’t make him feel any better, but it warms his cold, empty stomach.

                “Can I bum one?” he asks Crowley, and his voice is so raspy and awful he barely recognizes it himself. Must be that his throat is raw from all the vomiting.

                Crowley takes his flask back and whips out a cigarette for Dean, lighting it for him and everything. Crowley has always been a good friend, even if he’s a scumbag like Dean is. The first drag on his smoke is heavenly. Dean closes his eyes as he takes it in, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. He doesn’t feel any less angry, but at least physically he feels better.

                “You look like a corpse,” Zach comments, and Dean just glares at him. He doesn’t even have to try to muster up a good glare. It just comes naturally. His permanent expression today is a glare. It must be a scary one, because Zach shrinks back a little and looks away, saying nothing more.

                Crowley knows when to not comment on Dean’s appearance and/or attitude, so he just gives Dean one more swig from his flask before he tucks it away in his pea coat, not asking any questions about Dean’s obviously horrible state. They sit there in silence as they smoke, and it’s only when Dean reaches the end of his cigarette that Crowley hands him another and lights it again before speaking.

                “You hear what happened to Al?” he asks, and Dean chokes on the inhale, coughing and trying not to vomit again. He’s getting so tired of vomiting. His abdominal muscles are actually sore from it.

                He doesn’t say anything, a fresh wave of anger blooming in his chest. He can hear his blood pumping in his ears. He doesn’t have to say anything though. Crowley isn’t just talking to him, he’s talking to Zach too.

                “What do you mean?” Zach asks, and Dean forces his hands not to shake as he takes another drag.

                “He’s in the hospital,” Crowley provides, “Apparently that old coot who lives out in the backwoods found Al wandering around battered bloody on Saturday afternoon.”

                “Really?” Zach exclaims, “What happened? Bear attack?”

                Crowley side-glances at Dean, but Dean keeps his eyes down. It’s not that hard to figure out. Dean is a fucked up mess, and Al got his face smashed in. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who did it. However, Crowley says nothing. He just shrugs. “Al says he doesn’t remember a thing,” he replies, “The police were there at the hospital, but he told them he’s not pressing charges for a crime he can’t remember, if indeed there was a crime. He’ll be there a few more days.”

                Zach huffs, shaking his head. “Damn, what an idiot.”

                Crowley hums in agreement, and Dean says nothing. He realizes he’s been staring at his cigarette not smoking it, and it’s burned down a bit, ash clinging to the tip. His throat has closed up in rage.

                He needs to hit something. He _really_ needs to hit something.

                As Crowley starts to explain to Zach how fucked up Al’s teeth looked when he went to see him in the hospital, Dean shoves himself suddenly to his feet. Zach and Crowley call after him, but Dean doesn’t respond, walking towards the school, ears ringing and heart battling with his ribcage.

                He’s going to destroy the first person he sees.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel is just walking into the school when he hears a huge commotion. A few students are running down the hall towards the noises and Cas stops for a moment, staring at a crowd that’s gathered.

                He spots Kevin at his locker near the front door, and he wanders over to him, dodging a few students as they make their way towards the noise. “Hey,” he greets when he reaches Kevin, “What’s going on?”

                Kevin shrugs. “I just got here,” he replies, closing his locker, “Come on.”

                He drags Castiel by his arm over to the crowd of gathered students. The advantage of having Kevin there, a short, small little guy, is that he can wiggle himself and Cas through the crowd. There aren’t actually that many students here. The hallway is just small, and everyone is gathered together compactly.

                Castiel mutters a few apologies as he runs into some people while Kevin is pulling him along. When they reach the front of the gathered crowd, Cas’s breath catches in his throat.

                _Of course_ he would see Dean first thing Monday morning. _Of course_ that would be the first thing he sees. Dean is in the process of throwing another student onto the floor and climbing on top of him, his fist connecting with the kid’s face. Despite how awful it is, it’s actually a little impressive. The student is about a foot taller than Dean, and probably a hundred pounds heavier, and Dean is throwing him around like a rag doll.

                That’s not to say that the student isn’t fighting back, but Castiel sees something in Dean’s eyes – a blankness. Dean is like a machine right now, hitting and hitting, not reacting when he’s hit back.

                This is weird. This is _weird_. Usually, when Dean bullies people, he picks on students who are smaller than him, weaker. Like that freshman Barry Cook, who couldn’t even bench the bar. Or Castiel, who really isn’t that much smaller than Dean, but who doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t go after people who are bigger than him. And Dean doesn’t even go after people _period_ without his friends there. Castiel has never once seen Dean bullying someone or attacking someone in the halls when he’s alone and the other Cancers aren’t with him.

                This guy must have done something really bad to piss Dean off as much as he appears to be pissed off.

                Dean lands another punch across the guy’s face, and the student’s nose is bleeding, but he’s otherwise unaffected, he’s just so _big_. He flips Dean over at one point and gets a few good punches in before Dean finds his way on top of him once more and hits him harder. This isn’t bullying in the classic sense. Dean is in a _fight_ now. An actual fight. And while Castiel has heard that Dean’s been in fights before, this seems different.

                An image of Dean’s panicked, empty eyes when he was running through the woods on Friday night flashes through Castiel’s mind. What _happened_ to him? Something happened, because here he is acting even crazier than usual. Here he is with a look in his eyes that Cas doesn’t recognize.

                “Dean!” a voice calls out, and two people shove roughly past Castiel, knocking him into another student. It’s Crowley and Zach, and they jump into the fight, both taking one of Dean’s arms and dragging him off of the bigger student while Cas watches. The student Dean was hitting scrambles up and lunges towards Dean again, but a couple bigger guys from the crowd reach out and catch him before he can start up the fight again.

                Dean is breathing hard, his nose and forehead bleeding. One of the punches must have broken open the wound on his forehead that Castiel had seen bleeding when Dean was in the forest. Dean looks so _angry_. Angrier than Castiel has ever seen him before. He jerks in Crowley and Zach’s hold, swearing at them and swearing at the guy he was fighting. Crowley and Zach drag him away through the crowd before anything else can happen.

                Cas stares at the spot where Dean and the other Cancers disappeared, and the crowd starts to disperse when the student Dean was fighting growls angrily and stalks off in the other direction.

                “What happened?” a girl behind Castiel asks.

                “I don’t know, Winchester just jumped him,” a guy replies.

                Kevin turns towards Castiel with a snort. “At least it wasn’t you this time,” he chuckles. Castiel rolls his eyes, giving Kevin a shove, and Kevin laughs.

                Victor and another teacher break through the slowly dissolving crowd then, but they’re too late. Dean and the student he was fighting with are gone. Castiel stands there distractedly until Kevin pulls him along. “Come on, you’re gonna be late for class.”

                Castiel shouldn’t care why Dean was in the woods while Cas and his friends were having the ghost hunt Friday night. He shouldn’t, but he does. Just like he cares about everything involving Dean. Because Cas is pathetic, and Project FAD is a bust, and he’s just so damn _curious_ as to why Dean is behaving this way. And he _cares_. He wants to help. He wants not to see such anger and emptiness in those green, green eyes.

                He spends the day distracted. He pays attention as much as he can in class, but he’s also busy trying to shut his brain off from coming up with different ways in which he could help Dean. And that’s just stupid, because he doesn’t even _know_ Dean. And Dean doesn’t want his help. Why would he? Castiel is just another weak little victim to him.

                When lunch rolls around, Cas doesn’t buy anything, too wrapped up in his own head to feel hungry at all. Charlie and Gabe both give him food from their lunches, forcing him to eat it, no exceptions. Dorothy pours him half of her grapefruit juice in the lid of her thermos. He smiles at his friends appreciatively, if a little bashfully, and finally accepts the food after trying to give it back three times.

                He sits with his back to the windows like he’s been doing for weeks now, forcing himself to not look at Dean out there at The Docks. Only, it has the opposite effect today. He’s facing the door to the cafeteria now, and he has a direct view of Dean walking in.

                Dean is alone when he enters, and he’s still got that look in his eyes. The look of just blind rage. Castiel watches his hands clench into fists, and then relax, only to clench again. He’s like an angry tiger in a cage, ready to pounce the second the door opens.

                That proverbial door comes in the form of one of the football players with his friends. He’s about the same size as Dean, wearing his Varsity letterman jacket, and he accidentally bumps shoulders with Dean while he’s distracted saying something to his friends. He doesn’t even look back when he runs into Dean, just keeps walking and talking animatedly, waving his hands and shoving his friends like a typical jock.

                Dean reacts almost instantly, like a coiled spring. He _lunges_ , and Castiel sits up straighter with a surprised gasp as Dean tackles the football player into a nearby table. A couple girls sitting at the table scream and scramble away as Dean and the football player land on their food.

                “Whoa!” Gabe exclaims, his eyes fixed on the fight as Charlie and Dorothy turn around to look at what all the commotion is.

                “Jesus, didn’t Winchester get in a fight this morning too?” Dorothy asks, “What a hothead.”

                Gabe and Charlie murmur in agreement as they watch, but Castiel can’t agree with that. Dean _isn’t_ a hothead. He’s actually a calculating and intelligent bully, as far as bullies go. He doesn’t just strike. He gets at people’s weaknesses and finds his way under their skin. He’s isn’t a _brute_. But he’s acting like one today. This is his second fight in only a few hours, at least that Castiel has seen. There could have been more.

                Dean and the football player roll off the table and crash to the floor, taking swings at each other. People scramble out of their way, and a couple of the football player’s friends reach down to try to pull Dean off of him. Dean swings his fist back and catches one of them in the nose before turning back and continuing to hit the first guy.

                The fight is extreme, but it doesn’t last very long. Victor comes running into the cafeteria, and a few other adults overseeing senior lunch step in, pulling Dean and the football player off of each other. Castiel can’t hear them from where he is, but Victor is saying something to Dean, and he looks like he’s trying to calm him down. Dean is red-in-the-face angry, and Castiel is surprised that he can’t see smoke coming from his flared nostrils. He flips Victor off, and Victor’s mouth sets in a grim line.

                Cas watches as Dean and the football player are escorted out of the cafeteria. The crowds disperse again, much like they did this morning, and Charlie and Dorothy turn back around. “Damn,” Charlie mutters, “What’s got _his_ panties in a twist?”

                Gabe pops a Skittle into his mouth. “You think it has something to do with what happened in the woods?”

                Dorothy glances between the three of them. “What do you mean? What happened in the woods?”

                “Oh, it was crazy!” Charlie exclaims, “We were having this ghost hunt-“

                “A what?”

                “-and Dean came out of nowhere all covered in blood and like totally high and stuff. It was insane!”

                Dorothy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

                Gabe nods. “On Friday,” he confirms, “It was me, Charlie, Cas, and Kevin out there.”

                “What the hell were you doing ghost hunting?” Dorothy asks, and Castiel zones out of the conversation as they start rambling on about Elsa Hautley again. He stares at the girls across the cafeteria cleaning up the remains of their lunches that Dean and the football player landed on, and people around them are gossiping in hushed voices to each other.

                Dean isn’t in math class later, which isn’t a surprise to Castiel. He sits there lost in thought, occasionally glancing back at the desk where Dean usually sits across the room, as if Dean will suddenly magically appear. Castiel realizes he’s _worried_ about Dean, which is just stupid. He just needs to finish up with today, go to theatre this afternoon for rehearsal, and then go home and forget about Dean.

                He needs to stop this madness in his head.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean sits in detention after school that day, staring at the clock the entire time, despite the fact that he knows time goes slower when you stare at the clock. He just wants to get out of here. He needs to leave so he can go smoke or drink or beat someone else up. Maybe all three.

                He’s been in four fights today and he still doesn’t feel any less angry. How many fights is it going to take? How long before he can just get the fuck over what happened at Ghost Town? Sure it only happened three days ago, but who cares? Sam needs him to be okay. His friends need him to stop acting like a psycho. And _he_ needs _himself_ back. He needs to sleep. He needs to _breathe_. He needs to be able to eat and think at the same time without feeling like he’s going to hack up his gall bladder.

                There aren’t that many other students in detention with him. It’s difficult to earn a detention the day you get back from Thanksgiving Break, but leave it to Dean to accomplish that. The jock douche he fought with at lunch today is sitting on the other side of the classroom with a black eye, glaring at Dean, but Dean doesn’t care. Maybe he and the kid can go for round two outside after detention lets out.

                His cell phone vibrates in his pocket, and he glances up at the detention supervisor to see if she noticed before fishing it out. He keeps it under his desk and out of view when he flips it open. It’s a text from Crowley, telling him to meet at The Docks after detention and they can all go to Ghost Town. Dean’s hand tightens so hard on the phone that he almost breaks it again for the second time today.

                He does _not_ want to go to Ghost Town. He _can’t_. He can’t go back there. Not this soon. He feels like such a fucking wimp for it, but he can’t. Just thinking about those old train cars sends an electric wave of chills up his spine, and suddenly his fingertips are ice cold and his temples are beading with sweat. This is _stupid_. He shouldn’t feel this way.

                By the time the detention supervisor says they can leave an hour later, Dean is sweating bullets and he’s scared and he’s still so fucking angry he’s having a hard time breathing. He kind of wants to wait for that jock and beat the shit out of him, but the guy stays behind in the classroom for a minute to talk to the teacher, so Dean just keeps walking. He has to get out of this school, now. The detention is held in The Dungeon (how appropriate), so the hallway is smaller, the ceiling lower, and the lights dimmer, and it’s all so claustrophobic.

                Dean bursts out of the school and sucks in a deep breath of the icy air, filling his burning lungs, trying not to have a panic attack. _God_ , why is this so hard? He’s Dean fucking Winchester, he should just get the fuck over it already. So Al attacked him. So what? It’s not like he was fucking sodomized. So why is he freaking out so much? Why is he so mad? Why does he scrub his back raw every time he’s in the shower now? Why are his scars burning and aching like there’s fire living inside him?

                He leans against the side of the school for a minute just trying not to pass out, tunnel vision fading. When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised to find that it’s snowing. Not much, just the occasional flake drifting past his face like it just started. It’s cold as hell out here, and he hugs his jacket tighter around himself, sniffing and rolling his neck before setting off towards The Docks. He can’t go home right now. He doesn’t want to scare Sam with the way he’s acting, because lord knows he’s been scaring Sam _and_ himself the past few days enough as it is.

                Crowley, Zach, and Gordon are all at The Docks when he gets there, and they stand as he arrives.

                “You ready?” Gordon asks.

                Dean swallows back the urge to start screaming. “Can we just hang out here today?” he asks, in the nicest voice he can muster, which turns out sounding like a growl.

                His friends all glance at each other, and then they shrug. “Sure,” Crowley says, gesturing towards the space on the cement slab next time him, “Have a seat.”

                Dean lifts the corner of his mouth very briefly in thanks, sitting down and accepting the cigarette Crowley hands him without question. It feels good to have a smoke now. He didn’t get one at lunch, what with being too occupied fighting a douche jock and all. Zach and Gordon start up their own conversation, and while they’re occupied, Crowley leans in towards Dean and talks low.

                “You wanna tell me what’s going on with you mate?” he asks, “I heard you got in four fights today.”

                “Shut your pie hole Crowley,” Dean growls shortly, not looking at him. He will _not_ be talking about this with anyone. He actually full-body _shivers_ as a new wave of anger rolls through him. Crowley just stares at him for a moment, and then leans away, fishing in his backpack and pulling out a bottle of Glencraig whiskey, cracking it open and handing it to Dean.

                Dean looks at it, and then glances at Crowley, and Crowley gives him a little smile. “Do the honors?” Dean just eyes Crowley for a moment, and underneath all the anger he’s feeling right now, he feels a swell of gratitude. This cocky British dirtbag is the best friend he has, and while it doesn’t mean much, he’s grateful for it. He swallows and takes the whiskey, giving in a smell first before tipping some back down his throat.

                It’s awful stuff, but Crowley once told him Glencraig is his favorite, so he doesn’t complain and allows the alcohol to do its work. Zach and Gordon join in with the drinking a few minutes later, and together, the four of them drain the bottle impressively fast, feeling the heat of it in their guts as snow continues to slowly fall, drifting like feathers. They hide the bottle a couple times as Victor saunters around the corner of the building on his rounds.

                Usually, when Dean drinks, he forgets about his problems. But right now, it’s having the opposite effect. All the alcohol is doing to him is inhibiting his ability to control what he thinks. He has no power to stop his brain from going back over what happened on Friday. He sees Alastair’s bloody face in his head. He feels Al thrusting against his back, and hot come soaking into his shirt. He feel a hand around his dick, squeezing painfully, a fingernail pressing into his slit. He feels his forehead impacting the floor of the train car.

                _He can’t stop it_. He has no control over his mind right now, just like he had no control in that train car. _He has no control_. He needs control. He needs this to stop. Crowley and Gordon and Zach carry on chatting away drunkenly beside him, but he can’t do it. He can’t focus on having a normal conversation when his emotions are like a hurricane caught in a glass jar. He feels like he’s going to explode. His heart is beating impossibly fast once again, and his throat is constricting, and he just wants someone to _bleed_. He needs to kill. He wants to kill Alastair. But Al is in the hospital, and Dean needs to kill _now._

                He has no idea how long they sit there after they finish the bottle of Glencraig. He brain is at war with his body, and he can’t even listen to his friends. He’s going to fucking lose his mind if he doesn’t hit something. He’s nearly blind with the rage by the time Crowley nudges his shoulder and snaps him out of his daze.

                “Check out Novak with his little girlfriend,” he chuckles, and Dean blinks a couple times. His eyes are watering with fury, but any mention of Castiel is enough to break him free of his trance for just a couple seconds at least. The kid is like a fucking lighthouse to Dean’s lost ship of a brain.

                “I thought he was gay,” Gordon comments distantly as all four of them look over and see Castiel exit the theatre with a red-haired girl. Dean has a class with her – Charlie Bradbury, if he remembers her name correctly. It doesn’t matter right now. His ears are ringing. He can barely hear anything above the sound of his own blood pumping. He watches as Charlie and Castiel step outside of the theatre, and they smile and hug themselves against the cold, laughing about the fact that it’s snowing a little.

                Charlie rubs her bare arms, blowing into her hands, and Dean watches as Castiel shrugs out of his sweatshirt – a dorky thing with alligators on it – and hands it over to Charlie. Charlie protests, but then accepts the jacket and puts it on, leaving Castiel there in just his ratty jeans and overly-large t-shirt that has a Seattle Seahawks logo on it.

                Dean _almost_ smiles. Deep down somewhere in a distant part of his mind, he thinks it’s sweet that Cas gave Charlie his jacket because she doesn’t have one. But right now, those thoughts don’t seem to matter. Right now, Castiel is _meat_. And Dean is a fucking bulldozer.

                As Charlie and Cas say their farewells across the parking lot, and Charlie heads off towards the front of the school, Castiel turns and begin to walk to the woods, hugging his bare arms against the cold, his backpack looking somewhat empty on his back. Dean supposes no one really got too much homework today, given that it’s the first day back after break.

                The four of them watch as Cas disappears into the trees, and when he does, Dean sits there for a moment, heart racing and throat burning. Castiel is _right there_. And Dean is _so angry_. It’s the _perfect_ opportunity. There’s no one else around here to take his anger out on anyway, besides his friends. And he won’t do that. Because he needs them, no matter how much he dislikes them. So that leaves just Castiel.

                Before Dean knows what he’s doing, he’s standing up, a little dizzy from the alcohol, but mostly light-headed from his anger. He starts walking towards the trees after Castiel, and Gordon, Zach, and Crowley hesitate before standing up and following him. He doesn’t really care whether they come with him or not – he’s going to hurt Castiel either way, alone or with his friends.

                He starts to see that red again as he enters the trees, and this time there’s no blue to combat it. Dean is seeing red. It’s not an acid trip, it’s not blood. He’s quite literally so angry that everything is red, like the walls of hell itself. The trees are dark and they seem to tilt inward towards Dean. He feels teeth sinking into the back of his shoulder and fingernails digging into his scars. And it makes him _angry_.

                Who the fuck does Alastair think he is, that fucking piece of shit? Where does he get off doing the things to Dean that he did? Why does Dean care so much? What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with _everybody_?

                He needs to draw blood so much that he can taste it.

                The douchey jock and the big lunk in the hallway and the two others he’d beaten up today weren’t enough. He needs more. He needs to kill Alastair.

                Dean and his friends catch up to Castiel quickly, the mess of dark hair and pale skin walking at a leisurely pace through the woods. Cas doesn’t look back as they approach, and Dean belatedly realizes Cas is wearing headphones.

                He can’t hear them coming. It’s perfect. It's horrible. 

                Dean reaches him first, and grabs Castiel’s shoulder, startling a surprised yelp out of the kid. Dean spins Cas around, and sucks in a shocked gasp when, instead of Castiel’s face, he sees Alastair’s. Al is grinning at him, all teeth and bloody bitten tongue and rancid breath. Dean stares at his face for a moment, and his eyes are watering, he’s so livid. His heart is _hurting_ his ribs it’s pounding so hard, and he can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe_.

                Distantly, he sees Zach come up behind Castiel – no, _Alastair_ – and pull his headphones off, stealing his iPod, and Gordon is there too, tearing his backpack off. Dean doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what they do. Because he’s swinging, before his brain even catches up to what’s happening. His vision is tunneling, and he throws the first punch.

                Alastair – no, _Castiel_ – crumples to the ground with the impact of the punch, and Dean is on top of him in an instant, swinging, landing punch after punch, eyes so teary he can barely see, face boiling hot, the back of his neck coated in a cool sweat. He’s lost his mind, and right now all he can focus on is the _hurt_. He wants to get it out of him, get this pain out from inside him. It’s overflowing, and he just wants to give it to someone else. Hurt someone as much as he’s hurting. He wants Alastair dead, but Castiel will have to do for now. What’s the difference, right? They’re both just bags of meat.

                Castiel ends up off the worn path through the woods as Dean and his friends drag him deeper into the forest, blanketed by shrubs. Everything is strangely quiet as Dean swings. His ears are ringing, and all he hears is wind and white noise, like he’s flying. Soaring, diving back down, impacting the ground, destroying everything.

                Psychology calls it displacement - taking anger caused by one source, and projecting it onto another. At least that's what Sam would say, smart little genius that he is. Dean, however, would say that the feeling of Castiel's cheekbones swelling up under his own bloody knuckles feels better than thinking about what a fucking sick bastard Alastair is. Dean is just blind, filled with a white hot rage that's ringing in his ears and pounding in his head, so loud and potent that he doesn't even hear his friend's half-hearted encouragements dying off into hesitant warnings that Dean shouldn't take this too far - there's a fine line between having a little fun and actually killing somebody.

                Every punch is like electricity shooting up Dean's forearm, Castiel's body jolting underneath him with every impact. It's just Dean and Castiel here. There's vibrations in Dean's ears, and above that, there's the sound of Castiel's ragged gasps as he tries to breathe through every hit. Dean's knuckles hurt; they ache and throb, but he imagines that Castiel must be in much worse pain. And that thought feels _good_ right now - Dean's seeing Alastair underneath him, Alastair's nose breaking, Alastair's blood. This'll teach that scumbag to ever touch Dean the way he did in that train car. 

                He has no idea how long he keeps it up, even going so far as to smack his friend’s hands away as they try to reach down and pull him off of Castiel. They don’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what he’s _doing_.

                And then, Cas moves.

                Cold slender fingers suddenly come up and wrap around Dean’s wrist, and Dean jerks to a stop. He's breathing hard, eyes burning with rage, but all that disappears when Castiel touches him. It's a loose weak hold, Castiel's hand on his wrist, but it's enough to make Dean freeze up. Those blurred images of Alastair's bloodied face fade from his vision, and Castiel's face reappears below him, completely broken, blood dripping sideways along his cheeks and temples, one eye swollen shut, the other a vivid blue staring up at him in the cold light of the forest.

                _Oh,_ so _there’s_ the blue. It’s finally come back to combat the red again.

                "Dean...please," Castiel's ragged voice whispers through the blood in his mouth. His voice is so quiet and weak that Dean almost doesn't hear it. If it weren't for the fact that he is so attuned to everything that is this broken boy beneath him, he doubts he would have caught it. But it's there.

                And Dean realizes - Castiel is _fighting back_ this time, albeit almost uselessly. This is the first time that's ever happened. This is what Dean's wanted all along, some sort of reaction out of this boy, some sort of retaliation or resistance. This is it, this is what he's been waiting for. And it doesn't feel nearly as good or satisfying as he thought it might. Instead it just feels sickening, looking down at that one pleading eye. He sees tears streaking through the blood, and all at once there's a heavy self-loathing sitting painfully in Dean's chest.

                Suddenly, he’s not angry anymore.

                Cas is _fighting back_. It’s small, and subtle, but that hand on Dean’s wrist is Castiel _defending_ himself.

                Oh God, what has Dean done?

                His friends have gone quiet, and there's nothing but Dean's heavy breathing and Castiel's pain-filled choking noises, and the sounds of trees creaking in the icy cold. He needs to get out of here. He can't handle this. He can't look at Castiel this way. He can't look at what he's done to that beautiful face - he suddenly doesn't want to see those tears in this boy's eyes, which is something he thought he wanted all semester since the first time he saw Cas. He wanted someone else to cry the tears he couldn't shed.

                _Fuck_.

                _Fuck_ , he needs to get out of here. He can’t stay here.

                What the _fuck_ did he do? What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?

                Dean reaches over quickly with his free hand and, surprisingly gently, peels Castiel's fingers away from his wrist, pushing himself to his feet so quickly it's like he was burned. He doesn't even look at his friends, just watches as Castiel rolls onto his side with a pained groan, hugging himself in the fetal position.

                Dean can't stand to look any longer - he turns and walks away quickly, twigs and frozen leaves crunching underfoot, passing Castiel's backpack still laying torn on the dirt path. He hears his friends hesitate before following him, but he really doesn't give a shit about them right now.

                Snowflakes lick at his face as he crashes through the woods, and he realizes he’s crying again when the flakes stick to his tear-stained cheeks and melt in the hot drops. _God dammit_.

                With shaking hands and chattering teeth, he stumbles through the forest, still drunk from the whiskey and wanting nothing more than to just go to sleep and never wake up. Then he’ll never have to face what he just did. He thinks maybe he can sleep now. Maybe he can rest.

 

*       *       *

 

                The whitetail deer. Scientifically known as _odocoileus virginianus_. Native to every continent in the world apart from Australia and Antarctica.

                Castiel supposes it isn’t uncommon to see a whitetail deer in the deep forests of Vermont, but it still feels unreal. He lays there on his side, his cheek pressed to the frozen mud, feeling strangely weightless as he stares at the deer.

                He has no idea how long he’s been laying here, how long ago Dean and his friends finally stopped hitting him and left him here in the woods. But the sun is starting to go down. He was cold for a while, but he supposes his skin has gone numb the longer he’s been out here laying bloody on the forest floor. There are little snowflakes landing on his pale skin, and they’re not melting anymore, at least not right away.

                He doesn’t know what happened. One minute he was walking through the trees, going home, and the next he was on the ground, and Dean was on top of him, hitting him. His eyes looked so _green_ in the winter forest, but they were watering. Dean wasn’t in there, not really. Castiel knows something happened to Dean, knows that there’s something wrong with him. No sane person gets in this many fights in one day.

                But he can’t really think about that right now. He can’t think about much of anything.

                Except for the whitetail deer.

                He must have lost consciousness for a little while, because his eyes were closed. But when Cas opened his eyes, the deer was standing right in front of him. And now it’s just there, picking at the ground with its mouth, and the only noises are the sound of its feet on the frozen ground and the trees crackling in the icy chill and Castiel's shallow breathing. The deer can’t be more than five feet away from him, and Castiel really wants to just reach out and touch it. It looks soft, and warm, but he knows it will run away if he tries to touch it.

                Cas has been bullied for most of his life. And he fought back once, a long time ago. He doesn’t fight back anymore, not ever, but this one time, he did.

                It was years ago, back when he was going to some middle school in Texas.

                It was the first time he'd ever been made to bleed by a fellow student. Most of the bullying he'd dealt with throughout his life up until then had been verbal attacks, emotional torment. He'd been hit a few times, pushed around, but nothing like this.

                He doesn't even remember the bully's name.

                But he does remember being cornered in the locker room after gym class, and shoved to the ground. And when the bully broke his nose, and Castiel saw his own blood on his hands, he didn't think. He just defended himself.

                Castiel has never been a small guy. He's not huge, but he's not small. Maybe his too-big clothes make him look skinnier than he is, but he's strong. Even in middle school he was strong.

                So it didn't take much to pin that bully down. It was one guy, just one guy who broke his nose and made Castiel angry and hurt. So Castiel hurt the boy back. Hurt him so bad he had to go to the hospital because Castiel broke one of the boy's ribs and it punctured the kid's lung. Hurt him so bad he has a permanent scar across his cheek.

                Castiel hurt someone that badly. He did that, with his own two hands.

                And for a month afterwards, he couldn't sleep. Because every time he closed his eyes he saw that kid crying under him, trying to breathe with a punctured lung, bleeding from cuts on his face that Castiel's hands put there.

                And Castiel vowed to himself, when they moved away from that town in Texas and on to the next destination, that he would never hurt another person again. Even if they are hurting him. He will not inflict that kind of pain on another living soul no matter how much they deserve it. Because it feels _horrible_ , hurting someone like that.

                Only now, he’s laying here bloody and broken on the forest floor, and he thinks…maybe he should have fought back this time. Because if he’d fought back, maybe he wouldn’t still be laying here on the forest floor. Maybe he would be home by now, in a lot less horrible a condition.

                He can’t even move.

                His breathing is shallow and nearly inaudible, and so far, the deer doesn’t seem to notice that he’s even here. He’s just a dead boy laying on the forest floor watching the sun set and a deer pick at the frozen grass.

                He hears a couple people walk by on the little path through the woods – he thinks maybe they’re students. The deer lifts its head, startled as the people walk by, and Castiel watches as it darts away when the people grow closer. He just lays there, without the ability to even move or speak past a tiny croak in the back of his throat, and listens to them pass him by and continue on their way along the path.

                Dean and his friends must have dragged him somewhere off the main path. He must be hidden in the bushes and trees. No one can see him laying here.

                He’d be scared right now if he wasn’t so damn _tired_. He closes his eyes as silence fills the forest once again. He’s actually sort of thankfully for how frigid it is out here right now, because he can’t feel the pain of his wounds all over his face and torso. Everything is numb, and he’s stopped shivering.

                He keeps his eyes closed. An immeasurable amount of time passes.

                When he opens his eyes again, it’s dark out. He must have fallen asleep for a little while, because the sun has set and everything is purple and gray in the night. He wants to check the time, but he can’t move, and there’s something standing over him. He feels something hot and wet touch his cheek, and he tries to angle his eyes upwards to see what it is.

                There’s a tiny bit of light left, and when the hot wet thing slides across his cheek again, he realizes it’s the deer. The whitetail deer is back, and it’s licking his face. He thinks that’s nice, actually. The deer is cleaning away all the blood, licking it all away. But at the same time, the tongue hurts against Castiel’s frozen skin because it’s just so _hot_ , like boiling water.

                A tiny groan of pain escapes Cas’s throat, and the deer’s tongue halts for a moment, pausing at the noise, and then continues to lick. This all feels like a dream, and Castiel’s dazed half-dead mind considers the possibility that this is Elsa Hautley’s ghost in the form of a deer taking care of him. But that’s insane, and so is he.

                He just needs to move. If he can stand up and get home, then everything will be okay. He focuses all his energy on his left arm, forcing himself to move it. He’s not paralyzed. He thinks maybe he’s just in shock and freezing cold and hurt. But he manages to move his hand a little. And when he does, it startles the deer, and the deer stops licking his face, darting away.

                That makes Castiel sad. He was beginning to really like that deer.

                He can’t move anymore. Moving his hand was exhausting. He’ll just rest for a while.

                Breathing shallowly, he lets his eyes fall closed again, and he feels himself begin to drift back into unconsciousness. Maybe if he goes back to sleep, the deer will come back. Maybe if he goes back to sleep, he'll be all better in the morning and he can try to move again. He wonders if this is what it feels like to die.

                And wouldn't that just be ridiculous? Being killed by Dean Winchester.

                Wouldn't that just be ridiculous.


	11. Odocoileus Virginianus

Buzzing. There's a buzzing in his ear, annoying and insistent. It drags Dean slowly and painfully out of his sleep. His eyes are crusted together when he tries to open them, and he has to reach up and rub away the salt from his tears and sweat so he can see. _Wow_ , he actually slept. And from the way his body feels like it's a thousand pounds, he slept a lot. His brain must have been catching up with all the sleep he missed over the weekend since...

                _No_ , Dean will _not_ start his day thinking about what happened at Ghost Town.

                His head is aching, and his stomach is churning with a little bit of nausea, but this time it's not sick-from-thinking-about-Alastair nausea. It's good old hangover nausea.   

                The buzzing continues and he groans, blinking his eyes open again and crinkling his forehead. There's light streaming through his window, and the sun is high in the winter sky. Dean tries his best to search for the source of the buzzing noise without moving too much, and he spots his cell phone on the floor next to his mattress, dancing across the floorboards every time it vibrates.

                Swallowing back the need to spew, smacking his lips together and grimacing at the taste of whiskey and blood on his tongue, he fumbles, slapping the floor a few times before he manages to grab his phone, squinting at the caller ID. It's Bobby.

                Groaning again, he flips his phone open and presses it to his ear, closing his eyes against the daylight out the window.

                "Yeah?" he greets, his voice like sandpaper.

                "'Yeah'?" Bobby mimics, sounding unamused, "Boy, is that any way to talk to me on a Tuesday afternoon?"

                Dean blinks his eyes open again. "Afternoon?" he croaks. Is it the afternoon? Damn, he must have slept straight through school. Shit.

                He can actually _hear_ Bobby rolling his eyes on the other end. "You're not at school, are ya?" It's not a question.

                Dean swallows dryly and runs his hand over his salty face. "No, I'm sick," he lies, too exhausted to even _try_ to make it sound convincing. Bobby just scoffs on the other end.

                "Save the excuses for your daddy. That ain't the reason I called," Bobby says.

                Dean squints up at the clock on his wall. It's already almost one. Crap. "What's up?"

                He hears Bobby shuffling around on the other end, probably at the craft shop doing paperwork. "You heard from your boy Castiel? He was meant to come in to work last night and never showed up."

                Dean yawns, only half-listening, still exhausted. Three days of no sleep will do that to you, he supposes. "My boy? Bobby, Castiel isn't my _boy_."

                "Ah hell, you know I didn't mean it like that," Bobby snorts, "But you boys are friends, ain't ya?"

                Dean buries his face in his pillow, yawning again, ready to go back to sleep. His head is pounding. "No," he replies in the middle of his yawn, "No, not really. We just bump shoulders in the halls sometimes. I don't really know the kid."

                Bobby hums on the other end. "I thought you boys said you were friends," he mutters, "Oh well, never mind I guess. We'll just see if he shows up tonight. Call me if ya see him?"

                Dean mumbles some sort of affirmative, and he thinks he hears Bobby mutter something along the lines of "lazy idjit" before they farewell each other and Dean snaps his phone closed, tossing it aside on the floor. He rolls over, finding the best position that keeps pressure off his nauseous stomach and pulls the blanket up to his nose.

                He's _almost_ asleep, dancing on the edge, when suddenly the conversation sinks in. Castiel didn't show up for work last night. Castiel never misses work.

                Abruptly, the events of yesterday afternoon come flooding back to Dean. He remembers being so angry he couldn't see straight. He remembers craving blood. He remembers getting drunk on Glencraig. He remembers jumping Castiel in the forest, and then...

                Dean's eyes snap open, and he sits up so quickly his head spins and he has to hold onto the wall for support so he doesn't fall back into his pillow again. His stomach protests angrily, and he feels bile in the back of his throat. _Shit_! He scrambles out of bed, stumbling and throwing open his bedroom door, running down the hall to the bathroom and throwing the toilet seat up just in time, vomiting his guts out. _God_ , but he's getting tired of vomiting these past several days. At least this time it's because of a hangover, and not because of...

                _No_. No, he won't think about that. Not again. Look where thinking about Alastair has gotten him.

                Oh God...Castiel.

                Castiel didn't show up for work last night. He _didn't show up for work last night_. A guy like Cas doesn't just _miss_ work, or blow it off. He doesn't. Oh God.

                Dean rinses his mouth out quickly, his head aching steadily, and he runs back into his room. It doesn't look like John or Sammy are home, which is a good thing. He doesn't want to have to explain why he's suddenly panicking. At least he doesn't feel overwhelmingly mad anymore like he's been feeling for the past few days.

                No, Dean supposes all he really needed to cure his anger was to drunkenly attack Castiel Novak and beat him half to death.  _Shit_. 

                He runs into his room and grabs his coat, throwing on his boots, not even bothering with socks because his heart is racing and his mind is screaming _shit shit shit_ at him. What if Castiel is still out in the woods? What if he never made it home? Dean doesn't remember much about yesterday apart from a blur of anger and drunkenness and hitting a lot of people. One of those people was Castiel, and he distinctly remembers hitting him _a lot_. Hitting him so much that Castiel had actually _defended_ himself, however weakly. And then he remembers getting up and leaving Castiel there bloody and beaten on the forest floor.

                What if Castiel never got up? What if Cas is dead? Dean doesn't think he can live with himself if he killed someone like Castiel.

                No. He won't get ahead of himself here.

                Maybe Cas just forgot about work. Maybe this is all a big overreaction. Maybe Castiel is fine and sitting in math class right now where Dean is supposed to be.

                But Dean has this horrible, heavy feeling in his gut that, no, Castiel is _not_ in math class, and no, Castiel is _not_ okay.

                _Shit_.

                Dean doesn't even bother locking the door as he runs out of the house and towards the woods. The neighbor lady with the seventeen yapping dogs and the garden of rotting (now frozen) squash is peering out her window at him, but he doesn't even pay her any mind. All that woman does is _look_. She never _does_ anything. Maybe she's a ghost. It would make sense in an end-of-the-earth town like this, forgotten of and tucked away in the middle of the Vermont forest.

                Dean runs into the woods and finds the worn path, his green eyes darting around, searching for signs of life. He hopes and prays that he’s wrong about this, but something nagging at the back of his mind tells him that he’s right. Cas is still out here somewhere, and Dean just hopes to God that he’s okay. 

 

*       *       *

 

                He knows of rain. He knows of the wet, cold touch of drops on his skin. He knows of tears and precipitation and the spray of hoses in the summer storm. He knows these things. This he knows.

                He doesn’t understand why he’s so cold right now – how he can be so cold, but so warm too. How he can feel like he’s standing under a waterfall in a desert and it’s slowly filling him up, up, up, draining his life away. He’s so full yet he’s so empty, and everything is so conflicted.

                There’s that hot warmth on his cheek again, but it’s rough like sandpaper and burns like poison ivy now, it’s been going on so long. It’s been an eternity since his last dance. It’s been an eternity since he’s had a drink. He keeps dreaming of fire and whistles and bloody fingernails and everything is _green._ So _green_.

                The sun keeps climbing and it’s all so wrong, because it was just night, and everything was purple with crickets and sparkling with snow. And the deer was there, motherly and angelic. But now it’s day.  _Now it's day_. Why is it day? _  
_

                It occurs to Castiel that perhaps he should just stop thinking at some point, because he’s dreaming of pencils and merry-go-rounds and blood and urine, and he thinks maybe that’s a bad thing. Because no person on the right side of death dreams of things like that.

                But he can’t help it. It’s delirium. It’s safer here, yet so terribly dangerous. And there’s Anna and his parents and his friends and Dean, all so far out of reach as he floats on solid frozen ground.

                The deer keeps coming back. It’s here now, licking him like it was before, always just standing there licking his cheek. It hurts, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He enjoys the company, especially now that he can’t really open his eyes anymore. A fleeting thought suggests that Castiel might be dying, that these delirious thoughts are his mind sugar-coating the ugly stuff. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

                He just wishes he could get a fucking drink of water as he fades out once again.

 

*       *       *

 

                For an hour straight, Dean’s been running up and down the worn path in the woods, looking for something, _anything_. Any signs of life.

                He’s trying to remember what happened yesterday afternoon. It's all a little fuzzy because Dean was drunk at the time, but even if he hadn't been drinking, his head wasn't on straight anyway, and everything is clouded in a haze of anger and whiskey.

                He tries to remember where they were when Dean and his friends attacked Castiel in the woods. He distinctly remembers dragging Castiel off the main path as they were hitting him, and they had ended up in some bushes, but he can’t remember exactly where.

                He listens to his feet crunching over the frozen ground, ice-covered leaves shattering beneath his boots, branches snapping. As far as a December afternoon in Vermont goes, it’s not terribly cold out here. There’s a thin membrane of snow coating the ground, but mostly everything is just frozen in place in the chill. There’s isn’t even a breeze. It’s like the world has just stopped. Dean thinks that’s actually kind of appropriate. This whole _town_ is a place frozen in time.

                His brain keeps going over and over what happened yesterday, but he keeps getting distracted. He keeps thinking about that little girl Anna, and how sweet Castiel is with her at Hautley’s Bend, and how Castiel had made sure her coat was on straight and her scarf was snug that one morning Dean had taken the long way to school and discovered where Cas’s house is. He thinks about Charlie Bradbury at school, and how he blearily remembers Castiel giving her his jacket yesterday afternoon because she didn’t have one.

                Dean feels sick to his stomach. He _hurt_ Castiel. He _hurt_ someone like that, who plays with his little sister at the park and gives away his jacket in the cold. How could Dean _do_ that to someone so good?

                And if Dean’s gut feeling is right, and Castiel is still out here somewhere…that means he’s been laying out here all night _and_ all day, without a jacket, beaten bloody.

                And here all this time Dean thought he _wasn’t_ going to end up like John Winchester.

                Running a hand through his hair in frustration, trying to swallow back his self-loathing and anger that’s threatening to rise again, he pushes on through the trees. His knuckles are still all torn up and bloody from the fights yesterday. He remembers the feeling of Castiel’s hard jaw against his fists, the sickening crunch of every swing. His friends had just laughed and cheered him on for a while there, each of them getting in on the beating in their own way. A kick here, a shove there.

                And Dean remembers them trying to stop him. He remembers one or two of his friends reaching down to try to pull him off of Cas after a while. And Dean remembers hitting them away and continuing to beat up Cas on the forest floor. And then they’d left Cas there in the icy woods, laying in his own blood on his side, shivering from the shock and the cold. They’d just _left_ him there.

                Dean had figured Castiel would be alright, that he would get up and wander home just like he always did after his beatings at school. That’s just how it is now. It’s routine. Cas takes a beating, and then wanders on home. Dean thought Cas would be _fine_.

                How _stupid_.

                When Dean starts to hear the sounds of students laughing and chattering, he knows he’s getting closer to the high school. But when they were beating up Castiel yesterday, they couldn’t hear anyone. He’s gone too far. Growling in frustration, he turns around and starts following the path back towards town.

                It takes him no more than five minutes before suddenly, he sees something. Laying there in the woods. He squints at it and walks over to it.

                It’s Castiel’s torn up backpack.

                Dean grits his teeth, staring at it for a moment before reaching down and scooping it up. He peers into the trees, looking for any signs of life, anything at all.

                He doesn’t see Castiel at first. Everything is the same shade of grayish-brown in the afternoon winter light. But then Dean hears a crunching sound, like something walking through the woods, and he freezes when he sees a deer. It’s a small deer, and it’s alone, just standing there several feet off the worn path. And it’s staring at Dean. Dean just stands there and stares back, because what is he supposed to do when a deer is just fucking _staring_ at him?

                They stare at each other for an eternity, almost long enough for Dean to consider the fact that maybe this deer is a statue. But then it moves, and Dean watches as the deer bows its head and starts licking at something on the ground.

                Dean’s heart nearly falls out of his ass. The deer is licking a _person_. There’s a _person_ laying there. All Dean can see is a tuft of dark hair, but he knows it’s Castiel even before he takes a step off the path and sees the rest of the fallen boy. The deer goes darting off when Dean moves, startled by the sound of Dean dropping Castiel’s backpack on the ground again in shock.

                Cas is laying in exactly the same spot Dean and his friends left him yesterday. He’s curled on his side, his back to Dean, and powdered with a tiny dusting of snow. Dean can see a few footprints on the back of Cas’s torn and dirty t-shirt, and he swallows back a wave of nausea.

                He just stands there. He doesn’t know what to do. What if Cas is dead? He’s not moving, not reacting to the sound of Dean’s footsteps or the fact that a fucking _deer_ was just licking his face. Dean can’t move. He just stares, blinking a few times as if this is a hallucination.

                Cas never got up. He never made it home. He’s been laying here all night. He could be dead.

                Dean pulls in a shaking breath, clenching his bruised fists. Clearing his tight throat, he tries to muster the ability to speak. “Cas?” is all he can manage, and it’s so quiet he barely hears it himself. _Damn it_.

                He tries again. “Castiel?” he calls a little louder.

                There’s no response, no movement. Nothing. Just the dead silence of the frozen woods and the click as Dean swallows past the dry lump in his throat. _Shit_.

                Dean forces himself to inch forward, chewing on his lip, heart pounding in his chest. His footsteps seem overly loud crunching across the ground towards Cas, and there’s dread sitting heavy in his gut. More than anything, he just wants to turn around and run away like he did yesterday, run away from this problem that he’s caused. But he can’t do that.

                When he reaches Castiel, he kneels down next to him and peers over his shoulder, getting a look at his face for the first time.

                It’s a fucking disaster.

                Castiel’s face is peppered with black and purple, one eye swollen and ringed in bruises. There’s a gash on his cheek and he has a split lip, the blood long-dried on his alarmingly pale skin. Most of the blood has been cleaned away, probably by the deer that had been licking Castiel’s face.

                Dean nearly has a heart attack when he hears a tiny noise, and he realizes it’s breathing. Castiel is _breathing_. It’s a horrible sound, coming from between Cas’s cracked and slightly parted lips, a rasping choked sound like Cas is trying to breathe through sand. But he’s breathing.

                He’s _alive_.

                Dean fights back a wave of self-loathing and panic as he reaches out and places a hand on Cas’s shoulder, turning him onto his back. Castiel doesn’t wake up as he does, his head flopping limply to the side. Dean tries to shake him once, gently. “Cas?” he says, louder, but there’s no response once again. The side of his face that had been pressed into the ground is bloody and dirty – the deer hadn’t been able to reach it and lick it clean.

                Dean pulls in a sharp breath and snaps into action. Just because Castiel is alive right now doesn’t mean he’s going to be alive for long. He’s been out here all night in the freezing cold, and he’s unresponsive. Dean shoots his hands out, flinching at how cold Castiel’s skin is when he touches it. Cas’s rasping breaths hitch a little as Dean slides one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees, scooping him up from the ground and hugging him to his chest.

                He stumbles a bit under Castiel’s weight as he stands, hoisting Cas a bit higher once he gets his footing. Castiel isn’t a small guy – he and Dean are just about the same size – so this isn’t going to be an easy walk home. But Dean doesn’t care. Cas hadn’t deserved this. Hadn’t deserved _anything_ Dean and his friends put him through. It was immature and stupid what Dean did yesterday, hurting Castiel this badly. Just because Alastair hurt Dean, doesn’t mean Dean needed to take it out on Castiel. Cas was just the new kid in town, and for some reason Dean and his friends saw that as reason enough to target him. Why did Dean do that? Why does he have to be so fucked up?

                Why is he so fucked up that he left Cas bloody and bruised and broken, unconscious on the forest floor where he’d spent the night huddled in on himself, too hurt to even stand and walk the mile or so home and curl up in his warm bed?      

                 Dean turns and starts walking back towards his house as fast as he can. He’s thankful that his house is right up against the trees – he’d rather not be seen carrying a bloody and unconscious guy down the street. He glances down at Cas every few seconds, maybe hoping that his eyes will be open. It feels surprisingly good to be holding him – it’s something Dean has wanted to do for such a long time, just _hold_ Castiel, like someone would do with a lover. But this is all _wrong_. It isn’t supposed to be like this. Castiel isn’t supposed to be this limp, half-dead victim in his arms.

                Dean’s muscles are burning from Castiel’s weight by the time he makes it back to his house, but he doesn’t stop. At this point he’s considering whether or not he’ll have to take Cas to the hospital in his condition. He could be hypothermic from spending the night out in those woods. He could have a concussion from the blows to the head. The wounds Dean’s own hands had inflicted could be infected. Anything is possible.

                All Dean knows is that he has to help him. After beating Castiel up and leaving him there in those woods, he has to help him. He _owes_ him this. He needs to make it right. He has to help him or risk hating himself more than he already does. This is _his_ fault.

                He manages to fight his way through his back door with some fumbling, almost dropping Castiel once. Dean glances at the neighbor’s house and is thankful to find that the squash lady isn’t watching him. Lord knows that’s what he needs right now, for her to be spying on all of this. He has to turn and walk into the house sideways through the small doorway, kicking the door shut behind him and carrying Castiel down the hallway.

                Sam and dad still aren’t home, which is a relief. Dean needs to get Castiel into a bath. That’s the first thing he can think to do. Anything to warm Cas up, because his skin is still frigid to the touch. During the walk home, Castiel had unconsciously curled himself against Dean’s chest, his face now pressed to Dean’s neck and hands weakly clutching the material of his shirt, probably seeking out any warmth he can get. More than anything Dean wants to turn his face and bury his nose in Castiel’s dark hair, but it would be _wrong_. Everything about this is _wrong_.

                He kicks the bathroom door shut behind himself and sets Cas gently on the rug next to the bathtub, not even hesitating before reaching over and turning on the water as hot as it will go without burning Castiel’s skin. He pauses for a moment as he reaches for Castiel’s shirt, because this feels invasive, stripping Cas down. But he needs to, if he wants to warm the kid up.

                Gritting his teeth, Dean peels off Cas’s shirt, wincing at the footprint-shaped bruises littering his back and stomach. He peels off Cas’s pants next, discovering more bruises and scrapes, and he hesitates before deciding to leave Castiel’s loose navy blue boxers on, just in case Cas wakes up. That would be a hard one to explain.

                 When the bathtub is full, he lifts Castiel carefully, and places him slowly in the water, making sure his head stays above the surface, but immersing his ice cold limbs in the heat. His heart is pounding, and he's not sure whether it's from the exertion of carrying Castiel, or from panic and fear that the boy might not wake up.

                Cas remains unconscious, his back resting against the edge of the tub, head lolling to the side. Dean watches him for a moment, waiting for any sign of movement, but nothing happens. Swallowing hard, he takes a washcloth and dips it into the water, reaching out slowly and touching it to the blood on Castiel's cheek, wiping it away as gently as possible, cleaning first his face, and then his dirty arms, neck, and torso. He wipes tenderly at each of Castiel's tattered fingertips and broken nails where Cas tried to claw the ground to get away, and moves on down to his feet.

                Dean zones out as he works, eyeing Castiel’s body. Cas is a lot more muscular than Dean thought he would be. He has a flat, toned stomach and surprisingly muscled arms for a nerdy guy. On the right side of his stomach, Dean spots a long jagged scar, silver-white in contrast to his pale olive skin. Dean trails his fingertips over it as he’s cleaning. It’s too uneven to be a surgical scar, and Dean wants to know what it’s from…but that’s not his business, and he has no right to wonder.

                Shaking himself, he finishes cleaning, and then just sits there by the bathtub, hugging his knees and staring at Castiel’s unconscious face, debating what to do. If Castiel doesn’t wake up soon, Dean is going to bring him to the hospital. He knows what will happen if he brings Cas to the hospital. Police will be called, and Dean more than likely will be charged with assault. But at this point, he doesn’t care. He deserves it. He deserves to go to jail. Sammy will be okay. He can go live with Bobby. Dean should pay for what he did to Cas out in those woods.

                Blowing out all the breath in his lungs, Dean fights the urge to throw up yet again. He's still hung over, and he hasn't eaten anything. But he thinks to himself that Cas hasn't eaten anything either, or had anything to drink since Dean and his friends beat him up. So why should Dean be allowed to eat when Cas can't? It's unfair. Dean should suffer.

                He's too tired and shaken to stop himself this time, and so Dean just allows himself to give in to his impulses for once. He reaches forward with a weak hand and dips it into the hot bathwater, taking Castiel's limp hand in his and just holding it. He makes sure to keep it under the water so Cas's cold fingers can continue to thaw out, but Dean just wants to hold his hand. He would tell himself that it's for Castiel's comfort, but he knows that's a lie. Dean is comforting himself right now, selfishly. He's just happy that Castiel is okay, and he wants more than anything to make this right. How is he going to make this right?

                "I have a crush on you, you know," Dean says, his voice sounding overly loud in the quiet bathroom. Castiel doesn't stir when Dean says it, and Dean stares at his unconscious face, swallowing hard. He feels a little flutter in his chest when he says it out loud, because even though Cas isn't awake to hear it, Dean has never told someone he had a crush on them before. Not ever.

                "I've had a crush on you for a while actually," he continues with a little humorless chuckle, hating himself _so fucking much_ right now, "I just didn't know how to tell you." Who does this to someone they have a crush on? Dean is halfway convinced he needs to be committed.

                Cas's face twitches a little, and Dean freezes. Castiel makes a little noise under his breath, and Dean thinks maybe he's going to wake up, but then Cas stills once more, and doesn't move. Dean barely breathes, waiting for him to move again, but he doesn't.

                Eventually Dean releases his breath and relaxes. He looks down at Castiel's hand in his in the water, and mindlessly plays with Cas's fingers, running his thumb over Castiel's knuckles and gently over each tattered fingernail. It feels so _good_ to hold Cas's hand. Among other things, it's one thing he's wanted to do for a while. Just hold it, relish in the feel of its weight in his palm.

                "I guess I'm not really telling you right now either, since I'm pretty sure you can't hear me," Dean goes on, "But I just thought you should know. And that I'm sorry for what I did yesterday...and what I've been doing to you since you got here." Dean runs his free hand through his hair in regret. "Sometimes I just lose my mind Cas," he says weakly, "And I'm a wuss. I don't know how to say no to my friends. I'm not a good person. And you didn't deserve this."

                Castiel's fingers twitch a little in Dean's hand, and Dean looks down, loosening his hold just slightly so see if they move again. They don't, and Dean sighs. "Come on man, you have to wake up," he pleads quietly, "You got a sister who needs you. And...I know we don't really know each other that well, but personally, I think the world would suck without you in it."

                No movement.

                Dean waits for a moment, and then sighs, dropping his chin to the edge of the bath, holding onto Castiel's hand tightly. And he sits there and waits. He's not sure what he's waiting for. Probably a miracle.

 

*       *       *

 

                He's dreaming of this old Finnish tradition he heard of once, where people sit in the heat of a scalding sauna until it becomes uncomfortable, and then they instantly go and jump in the snow. It shocks their bodies, and then they just do it all over again.

                Castiel has never been to Finland, doesn't know any Finnish people, but he's dreaming of that sauna. Because he's so _warm_. He feels like he just climbed out of a snow bank and walked right back into that sauna.

                And his mind is thawing out. It almost hurts. But he's not dreaming about pencils and urine and merry-go-rounds and waterfalls anymore. The delirium is fading.

                Of all the things to notice first, he becomes aware of his hands. They're both wonderfully, painfully _warm_ , but one of them is caught in something, like a velvet grip. His hand is caught in something. He just lays there, wherever he is, wondering about it for a while. He's not sure if he's dreaming or awake, alive or dead.

                Is he dead? Is this death? This sudden warmth after an eternity of cold? Maybe his hand feels like it's caught because he's slowly dying, and this is what death feels like - compression. It's starting in his hand, and soon his whole body is going to feel like it's caught in something, and eventually he won't be able to move. Not that he can move now anyway.

                He misses the deer. He can't feel that hot, wet, sandpaper tongue on his face anymore, can't feel the burn of the deer licking the blood and dirt away. Towards the end there, it felt like the deer was just licking his skin off, the drag and scrape of that tongue on his face. It was so painful, but everything else was so cold.

                He hears a low rumble, like a growling dog, like a lawn mower in the distance. It sounds like someone's voice - an exceptionally _deep_ voice, but a voice nonetheless - talking to him, starting and stopping. Maybe it's Nathan Hautley. Maybe Hautley's here to help him die. Maybe he's still out in the woods, laying on the ground in the aftermath of the attack.

                But if he's still out in the woods, why is he so _warm_?

 

*       *       *

 

                It’s almost an hour later, after Dean has drained and refilled the bathtub a few times with hot water again, his mind racing with all the possibilities of how he can make this up to Cas, when Castiel begins to stir. A small groan breaks free from his throat as he shifts slightly, the bloody water rippling with his movement. Dean sits up straighter as Cas moves, and the first thing he feels is overwhelming relief. _Cas is alive, he’s going to be okay_.

                Only, after that dims, he’s met with a wave of panic again. How is he supposed to explain to Castiel why he's in his boxers in a bathtub at Dean's house? How is he supposed to explain to Castiel why Dean is holding his _hand_ , and not feeling particularly inclined to let go any time soon?

                 He doesn't really have time to formulate a good answer in his head before Cas is conscious enough to blink his eyes open. The black eye is swollen enough that he can only open it halfway, but Dean is still met with that brilliant blue. Cas blinks a few times, his eyes darting around lazily before he seems to grow more aware and turns his head, wincing at the strain of moving.

                 Dean remains frozen in place where he's seated next to the bath, holding Cas's hand, staring at Castiel as Cas looks back at him. "Dean?" he asks, and his voice comes out a weak croak that surprises the both of them. He sounds awful, worse than he looks.

                Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, swallowing once, eyeing Castiel. Cas blinks a few times, lifting his free hand and sitting up a little before seeming to realize that he’s in water. He looks down, touching the water like he’s never seen water before in his life. Dean licks his lips nervously as he watches him, shifting a little, and Cas looks back up at him.

                Dean slowly pulls his hand out of the water, regretfully letting go of Castiel's hand. He stands up, feeling a bit weak in the knees, and walks over to the sink, yanking his and Sam's toothbrushes out of the plastic cup on the counter and filling the cup with cool water, carrying it back over to the bath. He should have thought of this before. Castiel must be dying of thirst.

                Dean holds out the cup, but Cas doesn't even react. He's just staring at Dean's face like if he blinks, Dean will just disappear. Swallowing hard, suddenly so nervous he can barely _breathe_ , Dean drops down on his knees on the rug and cups the back of Cas's head gently in one hand, touching the glass to his dry lips. "Here, drink," he says, his voice almost a whisper, and he tips the cup so water is just starting to trickle into Castiel's mouth.

                Castiel drinks willingly, but after a few painful swallows, he chokes and coughs. His hand comes up out of the water and wraps around Dean's wrist to pull the cup away from his lips, and it's so eerily similar to the way Cas's hand grabbed his wrist yesterday in the woods that Dean shivers and nearly drops the cup.

                He leaves his hand on the back of Castiel's head though, holding him upright, mostly because he likes the feeling of Cas's soft hair between his fingers. He shouldn't be thinking like that right now, but he can't help it. This is _scarily_ intimate, Cas in Dean's tub like this, in nothing but his underwear, holding Dean's wrist still while Dean's hand is in his hair. And it's all so _gentle_ , so unlike their usual interactions. Dean wants to kiss him. He does. But he can't. Because that would be the most fucked up thing he ever did, taking advantage of someone in Castiel's state like that.

                “H-how are you feeling?” Dean asks, his voice weak and hesitant as he stammers embarrassingly.

                Castiel looks _more_ than confused. He looks just completely lost, his eyes glancing around the room, and then squinting at Dean like he’s a flying pig. He seems to swallow a few times, his bruised throat rippling. “There was a deer,” he croaks, and then he erupts into a fit of coughs, doubling over and hugging his bruised ribs. Dean instinctually moves and grabs onto his shoulders, dropping the half-full cup of water into the tub, supporting Cas so he doesn’t go face-first into the water and choke. He’s relieved to find that Castiel’s skin is much warmer to the touch now than it had been before.

                Cas flinches violently when Dean grabs onto him, jerking away like he was burned, and Dean pulls his hands back instantly, regret and remorse sitting heavy in his chest. He watches as Castiel pulls himself together, looking down at himself like it’s the first time he’s ever seen himself before. He blinks a few times, prodding his swollen eye with his fingertips, and then looks back up at Dean again.

                “I was dead,” Cas whispers, stifling a few more coughs, “The deer was there…and I-I was dead. I’m dead?”

                Dean holds up his hands. “No, Cas, no, you’re not dead. You’re gonna be okay, alright? I got you out of the woods.”

                Castiel looks even _more_ confused. Dean wonders if maybe he has a head injury that’s making him disoriented like this, and worry pinches at his gut. Cas stares at Dean, and then reaches one shaking, limp hand out, touching Dean’s cheek with his fingertips, as if Dean is just going to disappear like a mirage. Castiel jerks his hand back almost instantly when he discovers how _real_ Dean’s skin feels.

                His breathing picks up, and Dean pretends he doesn’t see a tear running down Cas’s cheek. _Shit_. This is the worst feeling Dean has ever experienced, looking at Castiel like this. Looking at what a weak, scared thing Dean has reduced Castiel to.

                All at once, Cas is gripping the sides of the bathtub and pushing himself out of the water on shaking limbs. Dean wants to reach forward and help him, to make sure he doesn't fall over, but the last time he touched Cas, Cas had freaked out and pulled away. He jumps up from the rug as Castiel gets his legs under him, and Cas looks at Dean’s feet first before raising his eyes to Dean’s face once more.

                The look in Castiel’s eyes this time isn’t confusion so much as something _broken_. Dean feels something twist in his stomach and he wants to throw up again at the expression on Castiel’s face. He looks so _hurt_ , so _betrayed_ , so _broken_. And he has every right to after what Dean did to him.

                Dean takes a step back away from the tub as Cas climbs out and grabs his clothes. He fumbles with his pants a little, trying to pull them up over his wet legs and boxers, but he manages to do it before throwing his bloody and dirt-covered Seattle Seahawks shirt on too while stepping into his shoes. Hugging himself, he makes for the door, and Dean is frozen in place.

                “Cas,” he says, but he doesn’t really know _what_ else to say. What is he supposed to say? How can he make this better? Castiel stops walking when Dean calls his name, looking back barely, not looking right at Dean. He’s shaking and he looks disoriented, blinking with that horrible look in his eyes like Dean just ran over his dog.

                When Dean says nothing more, Cas grabs at the doorknob, fumbling with it before opening the bathroom door and limping out and down the hallway. Dean doesn’t want him to go back out into the cold, but he knows he can’t stop him. He doesn’t want to hurt Castiel any more than he already has. He wants to help, but he’s done _enough_. He broke this kid – _he did that_. He nearly killed him. And for what? Because Dean couldn’t get his emotions under control? Because Alastair decided to come on his back? That was _nothing_ compared to what Dean just put Cas through.

                He stands there in the bathroom, glancing between the bloody bathwater and the door where Castiel disappeared for a few seconds, unsure what to do. He hears Cas shuffle down the hallway, and then the front door opens and closes softly. Dean shakes himself and walks out of the bathroom, crossing to the living room and pulling back the curtain over the window, peering out. Castiel is making his way across the front lawn, hugging his wet body in the December cold, his shivering visible even from here.

                Dean watches him glance once back at the house, and he looks like he's crying, although it could just be the water still clinging to his face from the bath. Dean is overwhelmed with self-loathing and helplessness, fighting the urge to go after Castiel, as he watches Cas disappear down the street.

 

*       *       *

 

                Of all the things Castiel should be concerned about right now, he shouldn't be worried about his backpack. He knows he had it while he was walking home from school when Dean and his friends jumped him. He remembers someone tearing it off his back, and that's the last he saw of it. He has no idea how long it's been since he was attacked. He remembers brief flashes of night, of the cold in the woods, of the deer licking his face, but he has no idea how long ago that happened.

                He wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants his fucking backpack.

                His whole body aches and throbs. He'd woken up in a bathtub - _Dean's_ bathtub - feeling so warm he was almost uncomfortable. Now he's freezing again, walking outside in his wet clothes, skin still damp from the bath, his boxers clinging to his thighs under his jeans.

                He's not really sure how much of this is real. Did he dream Dean just now? Did he dream all that? Did he dream the forest? Is he sleeping right now? His brain is disoriented and he's starving, and he's actually really thankful for that drink Dean gave him in the bathtub, if that indeed happened. If he wasn't just dreaming that.

                He's halfway convinced he's just dead right now, and this is all the afterlife. But why is the afterlife so damn _uncomfortable_? Isn't the afterlife supposed to be all paradise and warmth?

                His brain must be wired wrong, because as he limps down the street towards his house, away from that bathtub and the growling comfort of that deep voice, he desperately wants either one of two people. The first, to his horror, is Dean. He wants Dean. He wants to wrap himself in Dean's arms and sink into his warmth and just forget about everything that happened in the woods.

                But _why_? _Why_ does he want Dean? Dean is the one who _caused_ what happened in the woods. Is Castiel really that fucked up that he wants comfort from the very person who caused him distress? Who nearly _killed_ him?

                So he's going for the next best thing instead. The other person he wants to see more than anyone else, is Missouri. He wants Missouri. He wants Missouri to hold him like a mother holds their child. He wants to pretend for a little while that Missouri will always be there, and he wants to just sink into that motherly embrace and let her take care of him. He craves the warmth of her nutmeg house and the sight of the framed tarot cards and the rabbit's feet and the herbs and the dollhouse kitchen. He wants quail egg casserole and German stollen and to just forget about everything that Dean caused.

                This, he can have. He can go see Missouri. He wants to see Dean too, even though he just left that place, even though Dean hurt him like this, but he _can't_ see Dean. He _can_ see Missouri. And that's good enough.

                It takes him longer than usual to get back home. It's only a couple blocks away, but he gets lost a couple times, because his brain is everywhere at once, and he's in pain from what he suspects is a broken rib. His head is pounding, and his throat is dry. He needs water, and food, and sleep. He needs to just forget about all this.

                Hugging himself, his teeth chattering, he limps across Missouri's lawn and climbs the stairs slowly up to her front door. He knocks a couple times, but they're weak, quiet knocks, so he tries again, harder. He ends up just knocking and knocking weakly until the door swings open. It's Anna, and her face floods with relief when she sees Castiel.

                "Where were you!" she cries, throwing her arms around her older brother, instantly bursting into tears, and Castiel winces as she puts pressure on his wounds. He wraps his arms weakly around her in return.

                "I fell asleep at a friend's house rehearing for theatre," he lies weakly, "I'm sorry I forgot to call."  _God_ he sounds like he's breathing smoke. His voice is that of an elderly man. 

                She pulls away and glares up at him, but it's a weak glare through her tears. Castiel's heart breaks a little seeing the look on her face. "Bullshit Cas!" she yells, "We tried calling you! We called you like three hundred times! Why didn't you answer?"

                She buries her face in Castiel's stomach, sobbing, and Cas bites the inside of his cheek to keep from crying too. Anna yells when she's scared - it's just something she does. He doesn't have a chance to feed her more excuses before Missouri appears around the corner, and she looks just as stricken and worried as Anna.

                "Castiel James Novak, where did you disappear to?" she demands, coming forward and wrapping her arms around Castiel's shoulders in a crushing hug, sandwiching Anna between the two of them.

                Castiel has a _really_ hard time holding back the tears as Missouri hugs him. It's what he wanted most, this warm, soft embrace. She squeezes him tight, and he winds his arms around her and buries his face in his shoulder, just like he wanted to when Bartholomew was here. He closes his eyes and just breathes in the smell of sandalwood and nutmeg and candle wax, because it all smells like _home_ , and it makes him feel exponentially better.

                "I got held up," he replies finally when Missouri pulls away too soon, "I left my phone at school, I'm sorry." His phone was in his backpack...he wonders if one of Dean's friends has it.

                Missouri eyes his wounded face, the smattering of bruises and his grossly swollen eye, and she shakes her head, her eyes watery with sympathy and anger. Cas doesn't think the anger is towards him though. "Come on, get inside. You're letting all the cold air in." She ushers Castiel inside and closes the door.

                He toes his shoes off at the front door, holding onto the wall as a wave of fatigue washes over him, and Missouri studies him skeptically. She shoos Anna off to the living room for a while to play with Jesse and brings Castiel into the kitchen. Cas can't help it - he drops down in one of the chairs at the table exhaustedly, and Missouri brings him a tall glass of water. "Drink this all," she says, and it's like she _knows_. Castiel is dehydrated, dangerously so. He'd gotten a few sips of water at Dean's house, but nothing like this.

                He drinks the water slowly, shivering at how cold it is, but relieved at the moisture it provides his cracked throat. He can taste old blood on his tongue as he swallows, metallic and bitter. He can feel a phantom tongue on his cheek, and he shivers, forcing himself not to cough again. Coughing only hurts his ribs.

                Missouri brings him a mug next, filled with what smells like hot apple cider, and she sets a plate of bread with butter on it in front of him. Castiel fights the tickle in the back of his throat that means he's about to start crying. He doesn't like to cry in front of people, and he doesn't even know what he's crying about. Yes, he was attacked and spent the night in the woods, but he's _alive_. He's fine. So why does he want to cry?

                He keeps his eyes down, eating all the bread, his stomach cramping with how empty it is, and sipping the apple cider slowly, letting it warm him up. Missouri sits down at the table next to him, watching him.

                "Castiel," she says, and her voice is gentle but stern, "Are you going to tell me what happened to you? Your face isn't something that happens at theatre practice." She eyes his bruises. He hasn't seen his face yet - he's a little scared to. How much damage was done? Nothing feels broken, just bent and swollen at all the wrong angles.

                Castiel swallows his last bite of bread, fighting the urge to vomit it back up, and he raises his eyes to Missouri's face. She looks concerned, and not at all angry, but Cas still doesn't want to tell her what happened. He doesn't even know what to say. He got jumped? He saw a deer? He took a bath with Dean? What is he supposed to say? Where does he even begin?

                He remembers dreaming of pencils and deserts and whistles and lawn mowers, and all of that seemed to make so much sense at the time, but it's now clear that Castiel was delirious. He thinks it may have been dehydration combined with being outside in the cold for so long. He just remembers being so _cold_. So cold it hurt deep in his bones, numbed his organs. So cold that it was _painful_ when the deer's tongue was touching his cheek because the tongue was too _hot_.

                He swallows hard and stares at Missouri, and then drops his eyes, gritting his teeth, his chin quivering a little. "May I use the restroom?" he asks quietly, his voice cracking.

                Missouri is quiet for a minute, and then she nods. "Go ahead." Cas gulps and stands shakily. He still feels weak, but he thinks the food and drink helped. He's not feeling as dizzy anymore. He doesn't look at Missouri as he leaves the kitchen, ducking under the doorway and heading down the hall to the tarot card bathroom. He closes the door, and turns around slowly. After a long moment of hesitation, he raises his eyes to the mirror.

                His face is a fucking _wreck_.

                Almost the second he sees the bruises and gashes, Castiel bursts into tears. He presses his hand over his mouth to muffle his sobs, and grips the edge of the counter to hold himself up as his entire body shakes. He stands there sobbing for several minutes, crying so hard it hurts his already vulnerable throat and make his bruised ribs ache something awful.

                He's crying so hard he doesn't hear the quiet knock at the bathroom door, and he flinches when Missouri open the door slowly. When she sees that he's crying, her faces crumples in sympathy, and she closes and locks the bathroom door, coming forward and instantly wrapping her arms around him. He just melts into her, gripping her sweater in his shaking hands, his whole body trembling with every bone-shattering sob.

                She shushes him and rocks him like a little kid, and Castiel should feel embarrassed, but he doesn't. Not right now. He's too busy trying not to pass out, trying to gulp in enough air between each wracking sob. Missouri is saying something to him, maybe murmuring words of comfort, but he's crying so hard he can't hear her, can't understand her soothing words. But the sound of her voice is calming enough, and an immeasurable number of minutes later, he's stopped crying so hard, and is just sniffling and clinging to Missouri like she's the only person left in the world.

                And even after everything, he _still_ wants Dean. He still wants to feel Dean's arms around him. He still wants to kiss those full lips. He keeps rubbing his fingers together where he _swears_ Dean was holding his hand in the bathtub earlier.

                Missouri eventually pulls away, ushering him over and sitting him down on the lavender toilet seat like she's done before. She grabs a wet washcloth and pulls up the stool, sitting down and wiping tears and snot away from his face, dabbing gently at his wounds, taking his chin in her hand and pulling his head up so he's forced to look at her.

                Castiel calms down enough to where there are only a few stray tears sliding out of his eyes every couple of minutes, and he hugs himself, gripping his sides with his fingernails, trying to remember how to be a sane human being who doesn't have a huge crush on someone who nearly kills them.

                "What can I do?" Missouri asks gently, and Cas sniffs, swallows convulsively, his head throbbing and his body weak.

                "I saw a deer," he whimpers through his fading tears. He knows he sounds crazy, and he expects her to be confused. But instead, Missouri just gives him a little smile.

                "What kind of deer?" she asks, brushing his messy hair back from his face, wiping away a few more tears.

                Castiel laughs once, a watery, disgusting thing, and he's pretty sure he drools a little too. God, he's a mess. "A whitetail deer," he replies, sniffing and smiling a little, his bruised jaw protesting painfully, "It was in the woods. It kept licking my face."

                Missouri laughs a little. "Well that's something you don't hear every day," she comments, standing and filling the glass at the sink with more water and handing it to Castiel. His stomach is aching, it's so full, but he forces himself to drink the water anyway.

                Then, he grips the glass like it's a lifeline and looks at Missouri. And he cracks.

                He tells her everything.

                Everything that happened in the woods.

                He tells her about Dean and his friends attacking him, and Dean hitting him so many times Castiel forgot what was real and what was a dream. He tells her about the deer, and the deserts, and the waterfalls, and the merry-go-rounds. He tells her about how _cold_ it was. He tells her about waking up in Dean's bathtub.

                And he tells her about how much he likes Dean. He tells her that every time he sees Dean, he feels weak in the knees, and he wants nothing more than to just kiss him, and look into his big green eyes, and get lost in everything involving Dean Winchester.

                And Missouri listens. She listens to it all and doesn't judge him. She doesn't look disappointed. She doesn't zone out halfway through and think about what she's going to buy at the grocery store. She _listens_. And she lets Cas speak.

                "Dean Winchester," she hums when Castiel is finally done telling her everything, "I know that name. That boy has a reputation in this town. His _father_ has a reputation in this town."

                Castiel swallows and nods. "I know," he says, feeling suddenly so exhausted he could sleep for days, even though he's been unconscious for most of the past 24 hours, "But I can't help it Missouri. I really like him. And I can't stop."

                She hums again, pursing her lips. "You know, it doesn't have to be a bad thing, you liking him."

                Castiel's eyebrows press together in confusion, and he ignores the pain that flares up from his swollen eye. "Why? I mean you saw what he did to me. It's unhealthy."

                Missouri smiles a little, her eyes watery with sympathy. But it's the good kind of sympathy. It's isn't pitiful or condescending - it's merciful. "But he came back," she points out, "He came back out into those woods, and he made it right. He came and got you and he helped you."

                Castiel swallows, looking away as he considers that. "But it doesn't change the fact that he and his friends left me out there all night. I could have died Missouri."

                She nods. "Yes, you could have. But you didn't. Dean made a huge mistake, but from what you tell me, he seems to have done his best to make it right in his own way."

                Castiel sniffs again as he looks at Missouri. He doesn't know what to say, so he stays quiet.

                She gives him a little smile. "Now I'm not saying what he did is okay at all, nor is it easily forgivable. But he did come back. You should consider that before you think of yourself as messed up in the head for liking him. You can't help who you like honey."

                Castiel swallows and drops his eyes, wiping at his running nose with the back of his hand. He nods finally, and then sighs, pushing himself to his feet. A wave of fatigue washes over him again and he grabs the counter to keep himself from falling over. Missouri stands quickly and grabs his arm as he sways.

                "Well now that you're done making a mess of yourself, let's get you to the doctor," she says, pulling him towards the door gently.

                "Oh, no, Missouri, it's alright," he says, shaking his head, "I think I just need to sleep. I don't want to go to the hospital."

                Missouri rolls her eyes, tutting to herself. "I'm taking you to the doctor no matter if I have to drag you there kicking and screaming sugar," she says sternly, "Now are you gonna make this easy?"

                Castiel bites the inside of his cheek and sighs, blinking away another wave of fatigue. He wonders if he has a serious head wound or something with how dizzy he feels. He looks at Missouri and she waits with raised eyebrows until he finally nods, giving in, and she smiles. "Good boy," she says, "Now go wait in the car for me. I'll be right there."

                Castiel walks unsteadily out of the bathroom and down the hallway, passing Anna and Jesse in the living room. Anna jumps up as he walks by and runs over to him. "Are you going home?" she asks, her face still stained a little with tears. 

                He shakes his head. "Hospital," he replies, rubbing his aching head and blinking heavily in exhaustion, "I just had a little accident."

                Anna gives him a hard look. "How many more times does this have to happen before you stop pretending everything is okay?" she complains.

                Castiel forces himself to give her a little half-smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he lies, and then pats her on the head and walks out the front door. He hears Missouri behind him telling Anna that she's in charge for a couple hours while they're gone, and that dinner is on the counter.

                Castiel climbs into the passenger seat of Missouri's old wood-paneled Station Wagon, closing the door and leaning his forehead against the cool glass window. It makes him colder than he likes, but it helps soothe the aching in his head.

                Missouri gets in a couple minutes later and starts up the car, driving at a careful speed down the street and towards the edge of town where the small hospital is. The same hospital where Castiel went after Alastair lit him on fire. He shivers at the memory and hugs himself, looking over at Missouri.

                "Can you promise me something?" he asks. She glances at him.

                "Anything sugar."

                Castiel bites his lip, wondering whether he's making a mistake. "I don't want to press charges against Dean and his friends," he says, "I don't want Dean to get in trouble for hurting me, when he came back and saved me this afternoon. Can you tell the doctors a lie? Just something that will keep them from calling the police?"

                Missouri purses her lips. "I'm not going to lie to them," she says after a moment of consideration, "Not completely. I'll tell them you were attacked by a wild animal or something. Just let me worry about it. I'll make sure the police aren't called."

                Castiel smiles gratefully at her. "Thank you Missouri," he says, before adding, "For everything."

                She reaches over and pats him on the knee. "Let's make sure everything's okay in that silly head of yours," she says.

                Castiel huffs a little and looks out his window. He can't help but think that his head will never be okay. Not as long as he still likes Dean Winchester.

 

*       *       *

 

                He doesn't know how to feel. But that's sort of a primary aspect of Dean's personality, he supposes. Being unable to define how he feels. He's walking through the woods, and he purposely left his jacket at home because he wanted to be cold like Castiel was cold last night, all night, out in these woods. He spent a good hour or so trying to think of what he could do to make things up to Castiel. To make things better. And the only thing he could think of was going to retrieve Castiel's backpack from the woods where Gordon left it last night.

                Cas needs his backpack right?

                It's not nearly enough to make up for what Dean did, a backpack for an eye. But Dean thinks maybe it's a start. He wants to do better. He wants to _be_ better. That's how Castiel makes him feel. But in this moment, as Dean trudges back down the worn path through the woods, he feels lower than he's felt in a long time.

                He can't remember the last time he hated himself this much. He can't remember the last time he lost control like that and hurt someone the way he hurt Cas in those woods last night. He's never hurt someone that badly before. Never.

                Maybe it was a crime of passion. He likes Castiel so much he had to hurt him. But the truth is, Dean was so drunk and in so much pain yesterday that he didn't think of Cas as a person at all. At least not until it was too late. It had nothing to do with Castiel - Dean was hurting Alastair in his head when he was hurting Castiel in real life. But it doesn't make it right - it doesn't make it excusable. Just because Dean wasn't in control of himself at the time doesn't make any of this any less _wrong_.

                He still hates himself with every fiber of his being.

                He's still waiting for the police to knock on his front door - _hoping_ for it even, because he _deserves_ that.

                He's still wracking his angry, regretful brain trying to think of ways to make this up to Castiel. He _will_ make this up to Castiel...somehow.

                He finds Castiel's backpack quicker than he found Cas earlier this afternoon, probably because he's not panicking and running around like a madman, hung over and freaking out. He reaches down and picks up Cas's backpack, cradling it reverently in his hands for a moment. One strap is broken, and the teeth of the zipper towards the top are bent and useless. But it's the least Dean can do, returning Cas's backpack to him.

                He slings the bag onto his shoulder, and as he begins to walk away, he suddenly remembers something. Castiel has an iPod with him too. He has a vague recollection of Zach tearing it out of Castiel's ears and stuffing it into his own pocket. Zach had stolen Castiel's iPod yesterday.

                Dean scans the ground with his eyes. Maybe Zach dropped it? Maybe he left it there? Maybe he was a dick and broke it? But Dean sees no iPod. He pulls open Castiel's backpack and rifles around inside, but the iPod isn't in there either. _Damn it_. Zach probably has it at his house.

                Dean really doesn't want to walk all the way to Zach's place. But then he thinks of that broken, _awful_ look in Castiel's eyes while he was leaving Dean's house today, and he grinds his teeth so hard he can hear them creaking, setting his jaw and turning in the direction of Zach's house.

                Zach's parents own a huge old private residence in a clearing at the edge of the woods of Rail Pass. It's one of the wealthiest houses in the entire town, and it has a rich history, sort of like the rest of the town itself. Dean has only been to his house once, and the way Zach treated his mother pissed Dean off, so he never went back. At least not until now.

                Zach’s mother answers the door, and Dean realizes Zach must still be at school, probably hanging out at The Docks. It's only about four in the afternoon.

                He charms his way inside, saying that Zach borrowed his iPod and he needs it for a project or some other bullshit, and she happily allows him in. Dean rifles through Zach’s ridiculously-large room for almost twenty minutes before he finds the iPod buried under papers on his desk.

                Zach already has three iPod's in his room, the spoiled dick, but Dean knows this one is Castiel’s, because when he turns it on, music from _Oliver Twist_ is on there, and that’s something Zach would never listen to. Dean actually quirks a little smile as he goes through some of the music on Castiel’s iPod. Most of it is stuff from musicals or the scores for various movies like _Lord Of The Rings_. He even has _Star Wars_ music on there, which fills Dean’s chest with a swell of pride before he realizes that he’s allowing himself to think of Castiel as his friend.

                They aren’t friends. Castiel is too good.

                Dean swallows and pockets the iPod, thanking Zachariah’s mother on the way out of the house and trudging back through the woods. He’s tempted to just find a place in the woods to sit, and then stay out here all night. He wants to see what it was like for Cas last night. He wants to lay out here and get frostbite on his earlobes like he saw on Castiel's this afternoon, and have a deer standing there licking his face. He wants to have done to him what was done to Castiel, because that’s what Dean deserves.

                But Sam is at home, and Dean's little brother still needs him. If Dean decides to just lay in the woods all night and then comes home to find that John had been in a bad mood and done something to hurt Sam, Dean doesn’t think he could ever forgive himself. Even if he’s never going to forgive himself for what he did to Castiel.

                Running his thumb over the edge of the iPod in his pocket, Dean heads home, his mind racing. He’s still hung over, and he still hasn’t eaten anything all day, but even so, when he gets home, he doesn’t allow himself a drink or some food. Because Cas didn’t have any food and water in the woods last night. Why should Dean get to have some when Cas had nothing?

                Sam is in his room when Dean gets home, and Dean drops Cas's backpack and iPod off in his own room, poking at the origami Yoda mobile once, before heading to Sam's. He wanders in there and flops down on his back on Sam's bed like he always does, staring up at the plastic stars on the ceiling, not yet glowing because it's not dark out yet. He glances at the clock on Sam's nightstand. It's half past four now.

                "You okay?" Sam asks, eyeing Dean from where he's sitting at his desk working on homework. Dean glances at his brother, and for once, he can't laugh and brush it off. Because this is Castiel he's worried about. Castiel is different. Castiel isn't something you just shove down and forget about.

                Dean sighs and runs a hand over his face, sitting up and hanging his legs off the bed. "I did something bad Sammy," he admits, but he's not sure if he wants to tell Sam everything. Sam still looks up to him. Sam idolizes him, admires him. Dean is selfish, and he doesn't want Sam to stop looking at him like Dean could kick anyone's ass six ways to Sunday.

                But he doesn't have anyone else to talk to. Sam is the person he goes to when he needs to talk, although Dean really hates these stupid heart to hearts. Sam is a ball of mush and love and optimism and disgusting words of encouragement, and he loves talking about feelings, while Dean hates it. But he _needs_ to sometimes. Like therapy. Sam is this receptacle, and he's perfect for it. He's the perfect person to vent to. And that has Dean all conflicted.

                "What did you do?" Sam asks.

                Dean clenches his jaw and rubs the back of his neck in frustration. "Just something...really bad, okay?" he says after a minute, "And I don't know how to make it right. I don't know how to tell someone I'm sorry."

                Sam studies him, setting down his pencil and turning sideways in his chair so he's facing Dean on the bed. He seems to hesitate for a long moment, swallowing hard, before mustering up some sort of courage. "Does this have something to do with what happened in the woods Friday night?" Sam asks slowly. He's been pretty good about not asking Dean why he was burning his clothes and showed up looking like a fucked up mess Friday night, so Dean tries not to get mad when Sam mentions it.

                He grits his teeth to keep from snapping at his little brother. "I'm not going to talk about that," he says flatly, "Just drop it Sam."

                Sam sighs and lowers his eyes, looking a little defeated for a moment before looking back up. "Well how can I help? What did you do?"

                Dean sits there for a minute, contemplating whether or not to tell Sam about this. He weighs the pros and cons in his head. Telling Sam probably won't make him feel better, to be honest. It'll be just putting some of his problems on Sam's small shoulders too. Maybe this isn't such a good idea.

                Eventually, he shakes his head a little. "You know what, never mind," Dean says with a stiff smile, and he sees Sam's face fall a little in disappointment, "Let's just chill out for a bit, huh?" 

                Sam presses his lips together and then nods tightly, turning back to his homework and picking up his pencil again. Dean looks at him for a moment. Sam hates it when Dean shuts down like that, right when he thinks they're getting somewhere. Dean doesn't understand why Sam constantly wants him to talk about his feelings as if it's going to help anything. But whatever.

                With a sigh, Dean lays back on the bed again, looking at the ceiling, counting the stars and watching the light from the setting sun as it stretches across the ceiling in prismatic shapes. It's December - the sun sets so early now, around six every night. Dean _tries_ to focus on the sun, _tries_ to focus on _anything_ else. But of course, his mind wanders back to Castiel, which inevitably leads to Dean thinking about what a piece of shit he is.

                He's so _angry_ at himself. He _hates_ himself. And this isn't exactly old news, but it's especially strong today, the self-loathing. He thinks of how he hurt Castiel, how he lost control and nearly killed this guy who is so _perfect_ and _gorgeous_. What kind of a human does that? Dean goes over and over it in his head, and the anger in his chest tightens and tightens like a rod between two wires, twisting and twisting, tightening the wires more and more, strangling Dean, choking him.

                He thinks of how he left Castiel to die. He thinks about how he couldn't save his mother in that burning car. He smells burning hairspray, and he feel phantom pains start to eat away at his side again. How could he not do more to save his mother? It's the same thing with Castiel. He could have done so much more to save Castiel. He could have gone back out there sooner. Castiel was out there _all_ _night_ , freezing and starving and thirsty. How could Dean do that to him? How could Dean leave him behind like that? How could he do the same thing to Castiel that he did to his mother?

                What the hell is _wrong_ with him?

                He lays there seething, shaking a little with how pissed he suddenly is at himself. He's sweating, he's so upset, and even having Sam there next to him doesn't help like it usually does. He grinds his teeth so hard he thinks he might feel one chip. He needs to make this up to Castiel. It's too late to do anything to help his mother. Mary Winchester is dead. But Castiel is still alive, and he's hurt because of Dean. Dean did what he could this morning, but nothing is ever going to make up for what he did to Castiel yesterday in the woods. Dean can _try_ \- he can do _everything_ he's capable of to try to make up for it, but what he did to Cas is unforgivable.

                Dean's brain carries him back to thoughts of Alastair again. Maybe he deserved what Alastair did to him in that train car. Maybe that was just karma. He certainly deserves that and _worse_ to be done to him now after what he did to Cas. His heart is beating too hard, and he feels so empty, yet so full of fire all of the sudden. He has no idea how long he lays there on Sam's bed, but by the time John gets home, the sun has set and the stars and planets and moons on Sam's ceiling are glowing.

                John comes crashing into the house down the hall, and Sam jumps a little, looking over at Dean with wide eyes. Dean looks back at him, and this is the part where Dean usually gets up and goes to close and lock the bedroom door.

                But right now, he suddenly has an idea.

                He thought of a way he can start to pay for what he did to Castiel.

                It's not going to be fun, but Dean deserves every bit of it.

                He swallows, and gets up off of Sam's bed, his stomach fluttering nervously. He places one hand on Sam's shoulder, trying his best not to sound as angry and depressed as he feels. "Stay here, okay?" he orders, and Sam just gives him a look as if to say _what the fuck are you doing_?

                John is slamming around in the kitchen, and Dean closes Sam's door on his way out, glancing back once to make sure Sam is still sitting at his desk. Sam is wide-eyed and worried, but right now, Dean needs to do this. He needs to pay for what he did to Castiel. He can start by getting hurt as much as he hurt Cas. Maybe getting hurt even more. Maybe if he pushes John hard enough, John will kill him. That's what Dean deserves, right?

                He wanders out into the kitchen, and finds John rifling through the fridge. He's drunk again, as usual. But Dean is okay with it this time. It'll make what Dean is about to do much easier.

                He just stands there staring at his father for a long moment. It doesn't usually take much to set John off. One little comment will blow up in your face. But Dean needs to get him _mad_. _Really_ mad. Mad enough to hurt Dean as much as Dean hurt Castiel yesterday. It helps that John is already drunk, and already seems to be irritated. But Dean still has to choose his words carefully. He doesn't want John to just wander back to his room and lock himself inside for the next few days like he's prone to do sometimes. He needs John to _hurt_ him.

                The only way he knows how to piss John off the most is bringing up Mary. That's the one hot button in John's brain that is _sure_ to get fists flying. Dean _hates_ the idea of saying anything bad about his mother, but he needs to consider his options here. He needs a good beating, something to make right what he did to Castiel, make Dean and Cas even. And the only way to get that is by provoking John with trash talk about his mother.

                Dean swallows past the hard lump in his throat, and he feels like he's swallowing gravel, he's so nervous. John is _scary_. But Dean has to do this. He deserves this. He chokes back every reservation he has, whispering a small apology to the universe, hoping that maybe Mary will forgive him for the things he's about to say about her. He needs to get John angry. The sacrifice is bad-mouthing the woman who brought Dean into this world.

                He clears his throat a little to get John's attention, taking a step into the kitchen. John barely glances up from where he's rifling through the fridge. A jar of mayonnaise falls out, but Dean does dare go over to pick it up. He remembers what happened last time he tried to clean up something that fell out of the fridge while his father was there. He ended up with Tabasco sauce in his face.

                "Hey dad?" he asks, trying to sound casual, and a lot more brave than he feels, "Can I ask you something?"

                John grumbles from inside the fridge, throwing a rotting head of lettuce towards the oven. He's probably looking for the beer he finished off last night. He probably doesn't even remember drinking it. "Not right now Dean," he growls, "I'm busy."

                Dean swallows hard again, mustering his voice. "I just wanna ask you _one_ thing," he says, and his voice cracks at the end, but he's hoping John doesn't notice in his drunken state.

                John growls and straightens up, holding onto the door of the fridge and glaring over at Dean. " _What_?" he demands.

                Dean freezes up momentarily when John looks right at him. It's an old, familiar fear that's seeping into his bones. Every encounter with a drunken John is a scary one, and learned fear always takes over. But Dean has to do this. He forces himself not to look away from John's annoyed eyes. He's not really angry just yet, only irritated.

                "I just wanna know..." Dean says, and his voice cracks so hard that his throat goes dry, and he has to pause and swallow a few times, his heart throbbing in fear, "I just wanna know, why did you marry mom? I mean...she was a nice lady and all, but holy _fuck_ , she was ugly."

                Dean wishes he could say more, but his voice catches in his throat, and he just stands there awkwardly after he insults Mary. In his head, he's whispering a thousand apologies a minute up towards the heavens, hoping his mother is covering her ears. John blinks at him, looking like he's not sure whether he heard Dean correctly. "Excuse me?" he asks, and he doesn't quite look mad yet, although his knuckles have started to bleed white where he's holding onto the refrigerator door, like he's _just_ starting to feel the first tendrils of anger.

                _Oh God_ , Dean has to say it again. This is a lot harder than he thought it would be. He swallows, trying desperately to lubricate his dry throat. He's sweating through his shirt, but his brain keeps screaming _Castiel_ at him. He needs to _pay_ for what he did to Castiel. _Castiel_ is why he's doing this.

                "I was just wondering why you married such an ugly broad is all," Dean repeats, and his voice is a lot weaker than he wanted it to be, "She was real fucking ugly, dad. Someone's gotta say it."

                Dean holds his breath and waits for the reaction. John just stares at him in disbelief for a moment, like Dean is a dog that just meowed. Dean is just beginning to muster the strength to insult his mother one more time when suddenly, he sees it. That switch in John's eyes. When the confusion and surprise bleeds into anger. It's subtle, and if Dean didn't know John, he wouldn't have caught it.

                But Dean knows that look. It's a look John _only_ gets in his eyes when he's about ready to skin someone alive. Dean's stomach drops to the floor, and he can't even breath as he looks into John's suddenly murderous eyes. "What the fuck did you say?" his father asks, and his voice is low and dangerous. Dean has to actually reach out and hold onto the counter so his knees don't buckle. That's the voice John uses when he's so angry that he can't even yell.

                Dean can't speak, so he doesn't respond. And then John is slamming the fridge door shut so hard the things in the door rattle and crash around inside, guaranteeing that five items will probably fall out next time they try to open the refrigerator. Dean's ears ring as John walks towards him, and he's saying something, but Dean has checked out.

                This is it.

                The first punch lands across Dean's temple, and his vision goes black for a moment. He feels himself hit the ground, and when he blinks his vision clear again, John is already reaching down and picking him up again by his shirt, tearing the material. Dean feels another punch land on his jaw, and then another on his upper cheekbone, and he just tries to breathe through each hit.

                John is yelling now, screaming at him, and Dean knew bringing up Mary in any distasteful way would piss his father off this fast. But it's still surprising how easy it is to make John explode. Dean feels a trail of blood start to run out of his nose as John lands a few more punches, and while it hurts and it's awful and Dean can't really open his eyes anymore, he feels okay about it. This is probably what Castiel felt like in the woods yesterday. Dean is experiencing what he put Castiel through.

                So this is right. Dean deserves this. Dean deserves every hit.

                He has no idea how long it goes on, but distantly, he hears Sam's voice all of the sudden, screaming for John to stop. He's screaming so loud that Dean can hear his little voice over the ringing and buzzing and white noise in his ears. He feels his face bleeding, and he thinks his nose might be broken. There's a loose tooth in the back of his mouth that's leaking blood into his throat. John keeps landing punch after punch on his face and moves on down to his stomach.

                Dean feels himself fall to the floor again, and in addition to the fists hitting him, there are now smaller hands wrapping around his upper arms suddenly, trying to drag him away. _Sam_. Damn it, he told Sam to stay in his room. But he can't speak - he can't tell Sam to get the fuck out of here. Why can't he speak?

                He hears a small yelp, and then Sam's hands leave his arms, and it's just John hitting him again, shouting things Dean doesn't understand, spitting on his face. Dean raises his arms weakly in defense, choking on blood and he hears pattering footsteps running out of the room. The last thing he sees is a flash of blue, and he thinks it's probably just a memory of how _blue_ Castiel's eyes looked in the forest yesterday.

                And Dean actually _smiles_. Or he thinks he does. And then everything goes black.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel returns home from the hospital around seven that night. Anna demands answers, but Castiel just tells her everything is fine for now, even if he doesn't believe it himself. She glares at him and goes storming off into the living room to watch TV, and Castiel wanders into the kitchen. He's exhausted, but Missouri made him promise to eat something else before he goes to bed.

                He was right about what was wrong with him. A combination of dehydration and mild hypothermia caused his fatigue and disorientation, as well as what could have been a concussion. He'd had Tessa as a nurse again, and she was as sweet as the day Castiel went there and needed stitches on his head. She didn't lecture him about bullies or seeking help, which was nice, but she did look a little upset to see Castiel in there again wounded like last time.

                He picks gently at his earlobes as he wanders into the kitchen, feeling the strange crunchy texture of mild frostbite there from the cold last night. Tessa told him he wouldn't lose his earlobe or anything, and to just put cream on it.

                Castiel swallows. He's glad at least the heater's not broken right now, so the house is relatively warm. He doesn't think he can spend another night freezing like he did last night. His mind wanders back to the deer again, but he shakes those thoughts off and grabs a plate of leftover casserole from the fridge, heating it and carrying it up to his room.

                He strips down as he eats, changing into clean clothing, just throwing away his torn and dirty clothes that he spent the night in the woods wearing. When he sits on his bed, he almost falls over, he's so tired. He just wants to _sleep_. But he needs to eat, and he needs to get Anna to bed at least. And it's only seven.

                He chews slowly and stares up at the Project FAD list he hung on the wall above his bed, to remind himself of all the reason he can't have a crush on Dean Winchester. _Fuck_. It's only worse now, and that shouldn't be happening. Castiel needs therapy or something, because _how_ could anyone in their right mind have this strong of feelings for someone who almost killed them little more than 24 hours ago?

                He doesn't like to think about the fact that, when he first woke up in Dean's bathtub this morning, he was as thrilled as he was confused as he was afraid to see Dean there. His fear and infatuation for the guy are one in the same, and that's _unhealthy_. But Castiel can't fight it anymore. He _can't_. He's too tired. He's too worn out. He has a hard enough time dealing with everything else, and trying not to have a crush on Dean is _exhausting_.

                Castiel finishes the last bite of his casserole, ignoring the nauseous flip his stomach makes, and he sets the plate on his nightstand. He stares at the Project FAD paper for another moment or two and then stands up, pulling the paper down from the wall and ripping it up into several pieces. Screw it. He's not going to _do_ anything about his crush on Dean, but he's not going to try to fight it anymore. What Missouri said earlier was a good point.

                Dean came back. _He came back_. He didn't just leave Castiel in the woods for good. He came back, and he took care of Castiel today. He bathed him and gave him water, however unsuccessfully. There's good in Dean. Castiel knows that. He's known that from the start. There's something _good_ in Dean, and Castiel believes in him.

                He just doesn't know how dangerous that is.

                What he _does_ know, is that he wants to kiss Dean. He wants to kiss him, and touch him, and hold him, and love him. And that right there is proof that Castiel no longer possesses even a single _ounce_ of sanity.

 

*       *       *

 

                His ears are ringing as he regains consciousness. All he can hear is the ringing, and his own blood pumping like he has a heartbeat in every swollen, painful lump on his face.

                _Fuck_. So John didn't kill him. _Damn it_.

                It's not like Dean is suicidal. He just believes he should pay for what he did to Cas. And John killing him would have been a perfect price.

                _Fuck_.

                He tries to move and can't stop the groan that leaves his mouth as pain flares up over every inch of his body. He tries to open his eyes and he can only open one. _Just like Castiel today_ , he thinks. That makes him feel a little better. An eye for an eye.

                "Dean?" he hears someone's voice call out, and a moment later there's a hand on his shoulder. Dean blinks his one good eye a couple times, clearing up his vision, his whole body a throbbing, aching mess of pain and pressure, like he's pinned under a boulder. He turns his head a little, grunting in pain at the effort, and spots Sam sitting next to him.

                "Sammy?" he asks, like he's imagining this, and his voice is slurred like he's got his mouth full of water. He's laying on a bed, and he recognizes the room. They're in Bobby and Ellen's guest bedroom. The taxidermy stag head mounted over the door gives it away.

                "Yeah Dean, it's me," Sam says, patting Dean once on the chest, "How you feeling? You've been out for a couple hours."

                Dean swallows dryly, his throat clicking, and he coughs a little. Sam seems to get the picture, and he grabs a bottle of water already sitting on the nightstand, stuffing a pillow under Dean's head to prop it up and holding the bottle to Dean's lips. Dean reaches up, wincing as he wraps his own hand around the bottle so that Sam doesn't have to feed him like a baby. He drinks a few long gulps, forcing himself not to cough. His brain is comparing this to the condition Castiel was in today. Is this good enough? Did Dean take enough hits from John to make up for what he did to Castiel?

                "Dean...what the hell?" Sam says, and he sounds more weary than he does angry, "Why would you egg dad on like that?"

                Dean lets out a pained breath as he pulls the bottle away from his mouth, shaking his head a little and handing the bottle back to Sam. Sam sets it aside and turns back to Dean, but Dean just stares at the ceiling, trying to keep still. Every time he moves, a new pain flares up, but if he keeps perfectly still, the pain fades out to a dull throb. He briefly wonders what happened after he lost consciousness - how did Bobby get Dean out of there? Sam must have called Bobby, and maybe John eventually stopping hitting Dean?

                Whatever, he doesn't really care that much. He doesn't really care what happens to John anymore.

                Sam sighs in frustration next to him. "What's going on with you man?" he asks Dean, and Dean dares to turn his head to look at his little brother. He feels guilty for putting Sam through this, but he feels even guiltier for what he did to Castiel. He's so torn, but right now he can't think about it. He's hurting too much from taking John's well-deserved beating.

                Dean swallows. He owes Sam something. He did all he could to make up for what he did to Castiel for today. Now he owes Sam something. His little brother is always there when Dean needs him, and he doesn't deserve what Dean is putting him through.

                Jesus _fuck_ , Dean is really jacking up every relationship in his life lately.

                He's the common denominator here. He's the one that always fucks it up.

                He swallows hard and licks his dry lips, tasting blood, flicking his tongue against the loose tooth in the back of his mouth that John knocked free a little with one of his punches. It's not loose enough that Dean thinks it'll fall out, but he's sure it's going to be sore for a while.

                He eyes Sam for a minute, and then sighs, reaching over with a wince and holding Sam's wrist like he does sometimes. It's comforting, and Sam instantly relaxes. "Do you remember that guy Castiel from Hautley's Bend?" he asks. It's about time he tells Sammy about his secret crush. Dean can't deal with it by himself anymore.

                Sam smiles, and it's a sly little thing that makes Dean feel instantly better. "You like him, don't you?" Sam concludes immediately.

                Dean huffs a little laugh, wincing in pain. "Yeah Sammy," he replies, "I like him."

 


	12. Blisters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for any typos :)

_**DECEMBER** _

                They say when you meet the person you're going to spend the rest of your life with, you'll know it. You'll know instantly that he's the one.

                Dean thinks that's total bullshit.

                Because if that were true, then maybe he would understand why he can't stop thinking about Castiel. Why he can't stop thinking about those abyssal cerulean eyes or that creamy pale skin that's so often marred by bruises and scrapes from Dean and his friends.

                Is this the universe punishing Dean? Is this karma making him fall for someone who would never ever want him back?

                The thing about soul mates is that they don't exist. Not really. People love each other, but Dean's seen it firsthand. You can love someone to the point at which it aches deep inside, but you still hate them half the time. True love and destiny and soul mates - it's all crap.

                And it's not like Dean _loves_ Castiel. That would be impossible at this point, right? It's just that there's something there. Something in those godforsaken blue eyes that keeps Dean awake at night, guilty and awestruck and embarrassingly horny. And unable to stop fucking hating himself.

 

                Dean doesn't go to school for a week straight. He spends his days hiding in the corners of his house, waiting until John leaves for the bar or wherever his father goes during the day. Then Dean sits cross-legged on the matted rug in the bathroom, staring at the bathtub where Castiel had been laying Tuesday morning, unconscious and bloody and undeserving of the pain he was likely sustaining.

                It’s not just that Dean is in no condition to go to school after possibly the worst beating from John he’s ever gotten. It’s more than that. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he sees Cas. And word on the street is that Alastair is back at school too. So there are two people Dean really needs to avoid: one he wants nothing but to see, and the other he never wants to see again.

                For five days Dean does this. He sits and stares at the empty tub, thinking about life and blue and miles of pale skin and how much he hates himself for the things he cannot change. Sam finds him a few times in there when he comes home from school and teases Dean about having uncontrollable diarrhea, listing off causes and cures he learned when he was briefly interested in going to medical school, before realizing that they didn't have the frankly illegal amount of money it would take to buy him the extra education.

                After a few days though, even Sam stops teasing him, leaving him alone apart from bringing him food once in a while when he realizes Dean isn't going to feed himself, and cleaning Dean’s wounded, nasty face morning and night.

                Once - only once - Sam asks hesitantly if Dean’s ready to talk about what happened to him the night he burned his clothes. Dean just gives him a hard glare, and Sam lets it drop once more, instead bringing up Castiel, and whether or not Dean has spoken to him or made his move. Sam has been relentless with questions about Castiel ever since Dean told him about his secret crush on the guy. But Sammy doesn’t understand – he doesn’t know why Dean can’t just _make a move_ on Castiel.

                Sam doesn’t know what Dean did. He doesn’t know how Dean hurt Castiel.

                And Sam’s never _going_ to know. Just like he’s never going to know what Alastair did to Dean.

                In all honesty, thinking about what Alastair did makes Dean feel like scrubbing his skin clean with steel wool, but that's not what's actually bothering him the most. He feels like a stain that's ruining a nice tablecloth. Castiel is crisp and clean and soft and innocent, and the furthest thing from weak, and Dean is tearing him to shreds and marring him because of the things shredding and marring his own brain.

                So he doesn't go to school for a week. Because there's that chance that he'll see Castiel in the hallway, in the cafeteria, walking across campus, and definitely in math class. The thought of seeing Castiel again is terrifying, exhilarating, and nauseating all at once. Castiel is very easy on the eyes, yes, but every time Dean looks at the boy, he feels like he's corrupting him. He doesn't deserve to look at a perfect boy like that.

                He stays home. He stays home until the school counselor calls John after the weekend to inform him of Dean's absences. It earns Dean a bruised rib and blackened toenail, but he gets the picture and musters a pathetic sliver of courage to force himself to go to school the next day.

                He’s been spending a fair amount of time the past several days listening to the music on Castiel’s iPod that he stole back from Zachariah. Dean still hasn’t had a chance to return Castiel’s backpack and iPod to him on account of the fact that he hasn’t been able to bring himself to set foot near the school. He’s still trying to think of ways he can make everything up to Castiel, and in a pathetic attempt to right some of his wrongs, Dean downloaded his entire music folder onto Castiel’s iPod too, in addition to Cas’s music.

                Dean loaded AC/DC, and Led Zeppelin, and Metallica, and Black Sabbath, and Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Bon Jovi, and much, much more onto Cas’s iPod. All the music Dean owns, he put on there. Maybe as some sort of apology, however lame it is. Who knows if Castiel even _likes_ the kind of music Dean likes? (Although Dean has a hard time believing that anyone could _not_ like his music).

                But he does it anyway. And now Castiel’s iPod is full to capacity, with all of Dean’s music, and all of Cas’s. As Dean leaves his house to go to school for the first time since last Monday, he clutches the iPod in his pocket like a lifeline, Castiel’s backpack slung over his shoulder. He trudges through the woods and tries not to think about what he was doing the last time he was in these woods.

                His stomach is flipping and tossing and turning with nerves by the time he breaks free of the trees and is walking across the parking lot towards the high school. He’s so nervous that he forgets about the fact that The Docks are right there, until he hears Crowley call, “Dean! Where you been mate?” from across the lot.

                Dean’s head snaps up, his eyes turning towards The Docks, and instantly, his hand tightens around the iPod in his pocket to the point where he thinks he might break it.

                Alastair is sitting right there. Zach, Crowley, and Gordon are all there too, but Dean barely notices them. His eyes lock with Alastair’s, and Dean had no idea it would be this hard to see Al for the first time since that night at Ghost Town. Dean actually stumbles a little, and freezes in place. Al just stares back at him, sucking on his cigarette, and when he sees the way Dean’s battered face drains of color, a slow smile spreads across his still-bruised face, and he gives Dean a sharp, feral grin.

                Dean’s stomach twists violently with sudden nausea, and phantom pains instantly flare up along his scars. Crowley calls to him again, but Dean can barely hear him over the blush rushing in his ears. His face flushes, and he instantly feels both overwhelmingly angry and overwhelmingly ashamed. Alastair is _smiling_ at him, grinning like they share some sort of inside joke.

                Dean feels stomach acid burning the back of his throat, and _God_ he doesn’t want to puke again. He tears his eyes away from Alastair’s grinning face, swallowing convulsively, and he walks quickly towards the school on shaking legs, gripping his scars to stave off the phantom feeling of fingernails digging into them, ignoring Crowley and Gordon calling after him.

                He completely forgot about the fact that Al was back. He’d been so wrapped up in the thought of encountering Castiel Novak today, that he’d completely forgotten about Alastair. In some ways, that’s a good thing. Thinking about Cas is something to occupy his mind so he doesn’t think about what happened at Ghost Town. But now his head is throbbing painfully, overflowing with panic and dread and humiliation.

                He pushes his way into the school, shoving past a couple of freshman guys not looking where they’re going, and b-lines it to the bathroom. He pushes inside, and falls to his knees in front of one of the toilets, gripping the edges of the seat, kicking the stall door shut behind him, not even caring that there are probably millions of ass germs clinging to the porcelain.

                He’s breathing hard - deep, gasping breaths that hurt his bruised ribs, and when he sees something drip in the toilet water, rippling the surface, he realizes there are a few steady tears running down his face. _Damn it_ , he will _not_ cry. Why is he even crying anyway? So Al attacked him – boo fucking hoo. Get the fuck over it, princess.

                Dean clings to the toilet seat for a few minutes, just trying to breathe, even if the stall smells like stale cigarettes and old man sweat. He lets his watery eyes wander over the walls of the stall, reading some of the graffiti students have scribbled onto the metal with mechanical pencils while they’re taking a shit, about who fucked who, and which teacher has a huge ass, and who can’t handle their alcohol. It distracts him enough that he gets his breathing under control, but his stomach is still flip-flopping with nausea.

                He slumps down next to the toilet, thankful that there’s no one else in the bathroom right now. He’s halfway considering writing something on the walls of the stall too – **_Super senior Alastair is a filthy fucking rapist_**. But he doesn’t. He entertains the idea until he feels himself begin to panic again, and then he forces himself to think of something else. _Anything_ else.

                He knew this was going to happen. He knew eventually Alastair would get out of the hospital and come back to school. Dean can feel phantom fingernails, and the memory of hot come on his back, and the sharp pain of bony fingers squeezing his flaccid dick so hard they left bruises that are still there. His shoulder aches where the bite mark is still healing, and…

                _Fuck_.

                Dean leans over the toilet bowl and vomits.

                _Damn it_. There goes his breakfast. His nose runs as stomach acid burns his sinuses, and he retches a few times, eyes watering. He stares down at the fouled toilet water, watching a few Cheerios that he ate this morning bob on the surface of the vomit-filled water. Ugh, that’s disgusting. He spits, and reaches up, flushing the toilet before he throws up again just from the sight of his half-digested breakfast.

                He sits there on the floor for a minute catching his breath, his heart beating steadily, nose burning from the vomit.

                He allows his mind to wander to thoughts of Castiel, because thinking about Castiel and his big blue eyes and his gorgeous, _gorgeous_ heart makes Dean feel better. He’ll allow himself to think about him right now. Dean can’t force thoughts of Castiel out of his mind if he expects to not think about Alastair’s claw-like fingernails.

                Dean allows himself to think about how good it felt to hold Castiel’s hand while Cas was in his bathtub, how strong yet delicate those fingers felt. Dean replaces the phantom feeling of teeth sinking into his shoulder with the phantom feeling of Castiel’s hand in his, and Dean rubs his fingers together at the memory.

                He pulls in a deep breath, holds it, and then releases it. His mouth tastes awful, but he feels a little better. All he wants to do is go home, but if he misses another day of school, John might actually kill him. So Dean grabs the bar on the handicap stall wall, and pulls himself to his feet on weak, shaking legs. He wipes the lingering tears off his face and sniffs, opening the stall door and walking over to the sink, rinsing his mouth out and looking at his reflection.

                Beneath all the bruises and scrapes from his father’s well-deserved beating, Dean is pale white, like a ghost. Even his normally-prominent freckles have seemed to fade into dull, off-white splotches that look like cancer. He looks sickly and sallow and he has dark circles under his eyes that mix in well with the bruises.

                Today is going to fucking suck.

                He fishes a piece of gum out of his pocket to rid his mouth of the taste of barfy Cheerios, and then takes a shuddering breath, walking out of the bathroom just as the five-minute-warning bell rings. He glances both ways in paranoia, but he doesn’t see Al, so he shifts his and Castiel’s backpacks more snuggly onto his shoulders and heads to his first class.

                He can’t pay attention in his morning classes, but that’s nothing new. He stares at everything blue in each classroom, clinging to thoughts of Castiel so he doesn’t think about Alastair. His eyes keep darting to the little rectangle windows on the classroom doors, half-expecting to see Al standing on the other side of the glass grinning in at him, _waiting_ for him, _watching_. Dean’s skin crawls, and he scratches his arms like there are bugs under the surface. More than once, he massages the heel of his hand into his scars as they flare up in psychological pain.

                But he clings to thoughts of Castiel.

                By the time senior lunch rolls around, Dean is starving, since most of his breakfast was expelled from his stomach earlier. But he’s too afraid to go to the cafeteria. He knows Al is going to be there. He knows his friends will go to The Docks like they always do during lunch, but Al is going to be in the cafeteria for the first five to ten minutes buying food.

                Dean can’t go in there until Al leaves. _God_ , he’s pathetic. He’s such a fucking pansy. But he just can’t. He can’t go in there. He can't face Alastair. At least not yet.

                Instead, Dean wanders down to Castiel’s locker. He knows it’s probably creepy that he has Castiel’s locker number memorized, but Dean and his friends have harassed Cas there enough that Dean just uses that as an excuse for why he remembers where it is.

                He picks the lock easily, after glancing both ways to make sure the hallway is empty. It’s actually funny how easily he picks the lock. He’s gotten used to acquiring useful skills like this over his life, little troublemaker that he is. When he gets the locker open, he finds another backpack inside. It looks like an old backpack, like maybe Castiel fished out a used one from the back of his closet to bring to school since he lost the one he was wearing in the woods the day Dean attacked him.

                Dean shifts the torn backpack off his shoulder and hangs it next to the one already inside Castiel’s locker, smoothing it down a little too gently and reverently for comfort. But whatever. That backpack is probably the closest he’s ever going to get to being a part of Castiel’s life besides the whole bathtub incident. Dean fishes Castiel’s iPod out of his pocket and sets it on the one shelf inside the locker, making sure it’s near the edge so that Castiel sees it when he opens his locker.

                Dean is just about the close the door again and lock it back up, when he pauses, spotting the pictures taped to the inside of the locker door. The first one he sees is a picture of Castiel’s sister Anna. It looks like a bad school photo. Anna has her hair sticking up in odd angles with rainbow scrunchies wrapped around the various clumps. There are beads in her red hair too, and she’s wearing braces with rainbow rubber bands on her teeth. As far as school pictures go, Dean thinks it’s pretty awesome, but it’s the kind of photo that would piss off someone’s parents for wasting money on a goofy picture.

                Dean smiles a little before he can stop himself. He lets his eyes trail down to the other pictures. There’s one of Castiel and Anna on a swing with the word _Arizona_ scribbled in sharpie at the bottom, and Dean can’t help but stare at Cas’s blue eyes reflecting the bright desert sun in the photo. It’s faded and old, but those eyes are so vivid still. There are pictures of Castiel’s theatre friends in there too, including Charlie Bradbury, and that Asian kid that Dean and his friends harassed in the stairwell that one time before Castiel stepped in and defended him. There’s also a picture of that neighbor lady that Dean saw Castiel with the morning he discovered where Cas lives, covered in flour and looking with wise eyes at the camera.

                Dean is smiling a faint little smile as he studies the pictures, but he notices with a little confusion that there don’t seem to be any pictures of Castiel’s parents. That’s odd. Dean wonders if maybe they’re dead, and feels a pang of guilt and sadness in his chest.

                When a couple of girls come out of a classroom next to Dean, he swallows and closes Castiel’s locker, walking away and towards the cafeteria, his stomach growling. He feels a little better now that he’s returned Castiel’s belongings, and had a little glimpse into Cas’s life through the pictures in his locker. He feels like a bit of a stalker, but he’s going to be selfish today, because he doesn’t want to think about Al.

                Dean hesitates at the door of the cafeteria, glancing inside, making sure Alastair isn’t still in there. He also feels a little nervous, because he _knows_ Castiel is in there, sitting at the corner table where he always sits with his friends, probably folding up some origami bug for Bobby’s shop.

                But Dean swallows down the butterflies and the simultaneous nausea, and walks in, keeping his eyes forward, staring at the frankly obese lunch lady to keep from looking elsewhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the douche football player he’d gotten in a fight with last week and been in detention with glaring at him. He has to hold back the smirk. Despite the fact that it was wrong to just randomly get in a fight, it felt good to punch the conceited jock.

                Dean buys his food quickly, grabbing a rubbery-looking grilled cheese sandwich in plastic wrapping, and a Coke, wishing desperately that it was a beer, and pays the lunch lady quickly, probably paying too much. But he walks away before she can give him his change, reflexively heading towards the door leading outside and to The Docks.

                Wait, what is he doing? He freezes as he walks, staring at the outside door, and he feels his stomach flip when he sees his friends out the window, smoking and talking. Alastair has his back to the school, but Dean still shivers, and he has to tear his eyes away before he feels the urge to puke again.

                Dean turns on his heel and quickly sits down at the table closest to him. He’s actually never eaten lunch inside the cafeteria before. It feels different, and a little uncomfortable, but it beats the alternative of going outside and trying to stomach his food while sitting several feet away from Al.

                In his distraction, he sits down next to a group of preppy girls, and they all look at him in confusion. He realizes one of them is Lisa Braeden, a girl who had a crush on him a while ago before she ended up with a broken nose that everyone knows Alastair gave her. Dean swallows and gives her a strained smile, and she wrinkles her face at him, rolling her eyes. The group of girls grab their lunches and stand, moving to another table.

                Dean shrugs. Whatever. He isn’t exactly well-liked at this school, and he has a bad reputation. He’s used to people not wanting to be around him, and he’s grown to be fairly okay with it. There’s a group of students at the other end of the table working on homework that glance briefly at him in mild wonder, but then just go back to doing their work. Dean unwraps his grilled cheese and opens his Coke, taking a long swallow before biting into the sandwich. It’s disgusting and soggy and everything Dean expects of boxed cafeteria food, but he doesn’t mind it. He forces himself to eat, because his stomach is knotting in hunger, and he glances around.

                Of course his eyes automatically drift in the direction of Castiel’s table, and he nearly chokes on his bite when he locks eyes with Cas himself. Those big blue eyes are fixed on him, round and wide, like Cas just happened to glance up and froze when he noticed Dean is there. Dean stops chewing and stares back. He can’t help it. Castiel looks at him for several long seconds, and then blinks and looks away. Dean can see his throat ripple as he swallows.

                His face is still a mess, even after a week of healing. The swelling around his eye has gone down, to Dean’s relief, but his bruises are still there, all a sickly grayish-yellow color now. Dean feels guilty just looking at them, but he swallows it down and forces himself to continue eating.

                He can’t seem to get himself to look away from Castiel though. He watches him the entire lunch period, watches Cas keep his eyes resolutely down, his fingers skillfully folding and bending a yellow piece of paper into what looks like an origami sun from here. He notices that Castiel seems to be struggling with not looking up at Dean. He glances up a few times, in Dean’s direction, but doesn’t ever look directly _at_ Dean again.

                That stings a little, but Dean knows he deserves it after what he did.

                Later, in math class, it doesn’t get any better. Dean sits in his usual spot, and just stares at Castiel’s profile the entire period. His palms are sweaty and his stomach is fluttering like a middle school girl with a stupid crush. And let’s face it – Dean basically _is_ a middle school girl with a stupid crush right now. Only, with complicated circumstances and a mountain of mental issues tacked on.

                He barely hears Mr. Wyatt lecturing about sine, cosine, and tangent graphs, because he’s too busy wishing that Castiel will look over here, if only to let Dean catch a glimpse of blue. Mr. Wyatt is actually a great teacher, and he knows how to engage his students. He’s one of the only teachers that seems to pay extra special attention to Dean, like he really _cares_ whether or not Dean fails. But today, Dean just can’t pay attention. He just can’t.

                Not when there’s an angel sitting in the same room as him.

 

*       *       *

 

                When the bell rings signaling the end of math class, Castiel gathers his papers quickly, wrinkling some of them in his haste, and darts out of the door in a flash. He can see Dean out of the corner of his eye watching him, and it’s all just too much. It’s all just too much because all Castiel wants to do is go over there and grab the lapels of Dean’s jacket and pull him in for a kiss. He wants to kiss his soft-looking lips. He wants to bite his muscular neck. He wants to tears his clothes off. And Cas is a _virgin_. He shouldn’t want to tear Dean’s clothes off – he’s never felt like tearing anyone’s clothes off frankly.

                And he’s still equally as afraid of Dean as he is infatuated with him.

                So he rushes out of the classroom the second math class ends, darting down the hall before Dean can follow him. Dean has been staring at him unwaveringly since lunch. And all Cas wants to do is stare back, to take in that vibrant green, and those adorably boyish freckles, and that strong jaw that’s covered in bruises. Castiel wonders what happened to Dean’s face – he wonders why Dean has been gone all week. He wonders a lot of things that he shouldn’t wonder.

                And he’s been half-hard in his pants since lunch. Since he saw Dean staring at him like Castiel was a steak.

                It’s just not fair.

                It’s not fair that Castiel can feel this way about his tormentor. It’s not fucking fair.

                Of all the people Castiel could have gotten a crush on, why Dean? Why the one person he can’t have? Just, why?

                Castiel rushes to the bathroom, and steps inside, happy that there’s no one else in here, and he goes over to the sinks, dropping his books on the floor and turning the faucet on, splashing his face with cold water. He needs to snap out of it. If he can’t concentrate in school any time Dean is within the same breathing space as him, how is he ever going to graduate?

                Huffing in frustration, he palms his half-hard dick through his jeans, groaning before he can help it. He’s never been like this before. He’s never popped boners like a teen who just hit puberty before. Even when he _hit_ puberty, he didn’t pop boners like this. This is stupid. He’s never been affected by anyone like this before.

                And then Dean fucking Winchester just had to come along like a goddamn typhoon in his life, tearing things apart, tearing _him_ apart, in all the worst and best ways.

                Castiel stares at his reflection, watching water droplets drip off his eyelashes and roll down his cheeks like tears. He needs to snap out of it. He told himself that he wasn’t going to try to fight the fact that he has a crush on Dean anymore – he even ripped up the Project FAD list. But Castiel and Dean will never be a thing. It’s just not going to happen. And Cas didn’t expect it to _hurt_ this much, giving in to his feelings.

                With a weary sigh, he wipes the rest of the water off his face with the front of his t-shirt. It’s a shirt Bartholomew got for him at a souvenir shop in Tennessee, with _Elvis’s Graceland_ written across it. It’s torn in the armpit and it’s too big for him, but it’s soft from use, so Cas wears it occasionally.

                He gathers up his books and wanders out of the bathroom before he’s late for his last class. He halfway expects Dean to be waiting for him outside the bathroom, but the hallway is nearly empty. Most of the students are already in their next class, with the exception of a few laggards who don’t care whether they’re late or not.

                Castiel spends the rest of the day trying to ignore his half-mast erection and push thoughts of Dean out of his head.

                When he goes to his locker after his last class, he’s surprised to find his missing backpack hanging in there, as well as his iPod, which he assumed he was never going to see again.

                He knows immediately that it was Dean who put his belongings back. He just _knows_. Swallowing hard, he glances both ways, but doesn’t see Dean lingering there. Castiel grabs his stuff and closes his locker, wondering how Dean got in there in the first place, and he wanders out of the school.

                He has to pass by The Docks on his way home, as usual, but when he glances over there, Dean isn’t there. The snake-like Alastair whistles and catcalls at him, but Cas ignores him and steps into the woods, walking a little faster than necessary, half-expecting them to jump him again. It’s scary walking home now, ever since he was attacked. He’s on edge for most of the way through the woods. When he passes the spot where he spent the night, he shivers, every time, and his eyes automatically dart around, looking for the deer that spent the night with him, keeping his cheek warm at least with its tongue.

                He wonders if he imagined the deer. He was a bit delirious at the time.

                Gulping, Cas continues on. He pulls his iPod out of his pocket once he’s sure that the Cancers aren’t following him, and stuffs his headphones in his ears, putting his music on shuffle. The first song is the theme song to _I Dream of Jeannie_ , and it puts Castiel in a mildly better mood. When the next song comes on, it’s something heavy, with growling guitar riffs and angry vocals. Castiel’s forehead wrinkles in confusion, and he looks down at his iPod. He doesn’t know this song.

                He clicks the gadget on. _“Some Kind of Monster”_ by Metallica flashes across the screen. Castiel cocks his head in confusion. He’s never heard this song before – how the hell did it get on his iPod?

                He presses the skip button, moving on to the next song, and his confusion only doubles when _“Black Dog”_ by Led Zeppelin starts playing. Where did all this new music come from?

                Castiel continues to skip song after song, looking through all the strange music. Aerosmith, and Deep Purple, and Def Leppard, and Pink Floyd show up. Song after song that he doesn’t recognize. Heavy metal and classic rock and angry words and screeching guitar solos. He’s confused for most of his walk home.

                And then he realizes.

                This is _Dean’s_ music. He’s seen Dean wearing band shirts with these same band names and logos on them under his leather jacket. He’s overheard Dean talking about these bands.

                Dean put music on Castiel’s iPod. _Why_?

                Cas stops skipping ahead, and just listens to one of the new songs for a moment. It’s a song called _“Learning to Fly”_ by Pink Floyd. Castiel chews on his lip as he listens. It’s actually kind of lovely. He’s never really explored this type of music before, and while some of it is definitely too heavy for his taste, this song is actually nice. It’s calm, and the lead singer’s voice is enthralling. The lyrics are a lot deeper than Cas expected them to be.

                As Castiel exits the woods and walks towards his house, he finds himself smiling a little. When the song ends, he starts it over again and listens more closely. He can see Dean in his head, laying on a bed, headphones in, green eyes closed, just listening to this song, relaxing into the music. And for once, thinking about Dean doesn’t hurt, not when Castiel is listening to this song too.

                He makes it home after listening to the song four times over, and he pulls his headphones out of his ears for a minute to pick up Anna from Missouri’s. Missouri gives him another casserole with a layer of crumbled blue cheese on top. Castiel smiles and thanks her, and she checks over the wounds on his face briefly before shooing Anna and Cas off.

                When they get home, the house is cold. The heater must be broken… _again_. But right now, Castiel is a little too blissed-out to care. He sticks the casserole in the fridge, and makes sure Anna is sitting down doing her homework before he wanders up to his room, closing the door and flopping back on his bed.

                He sticks his headphones back in and starts _“Learning to Fly”_ over again, putting the song on repeat, and resting his head on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. When the vocals start up, and that calming voice begins to sing, Castiel closes his eyes, tucking one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach next to his iPod. This is arguably the most calming song he’s ever heard. He never knew rock could be this peaceful.

                He drinks in the lyrics with an awestruck smile on his face.

                _“A flight of fancy, on a windswept field;_  
                standing alone, my senses reeled.  
                A fatal attraction is holding me fast;  
                how can I escape this irresistible grasp?”

                He doesn’t know how much time passes, but the music continues to play, the song starting over and over again on repeat, and eventually Castiel drifts off to sleep.

                He dreams of Dean. Of _course_ he dreams of Dean.

                But he’s never had a dream like this before.

                He’s kissing him, and Dean’s lips are as soft as he imagined, like kissing velvet. Dean is a little aggressive when it comes to kissing him, just like he’s aggressive in real life, but he’s also gentle. He lets Castiel lead sometimes, and then other times he’s pressing in, licking his way hungrily into Castiel’s mouth.

                Dreams are perfect, so obviously Castiel knows how to kiss well in his subconscious mind, even though in real life he’s only kissed two other people, and one of them was on a dare when he was in kindergarten. He kisses Dean back enthusiastically, his heart beating fast, barely able to pull in enough breaths between the kisses.

                Dean’s hand comes up, resting on the side of his face, his thumb stroking Castiel’s jaw gently. His other hand winds around the back of Castiel’s head, fingers twining through his hair, holding Castiel’s face to his. Castiel is shy, so he’s not sure if he should touch Dean or not. He settles on resting his hands on Dean’s waist, fingers curling around his back a little. It’s a solid, muscular back, and Cas can feel two dimples at the small there right above his ass.

                He wants to grab Dean’s ass. He _wants_ to. But he’s too shy, too much of a _virgin_. It’s a little embarrassing – or it should be. But this is Castiel’s dream, so he doesn’t have to feel embarrassed.

                When Dean moves closer, pressing their bodies together, Castiel sucks in a sharp breath. He can feel Dean’s hard length through his jeans, pressing against – _wow_ – Castiel’s own erection that he didn’t even realize he had. And Cas can’t help it. He presses closer, grinding against Dean, winding his hands all the way around Dean’s back to hold him as close as possible, fingernails digging in gently over the soft material of Dean’s t-shirt.

                And all at once, they’re suddenly laying down. It’s a dream, and it makes no sense really. They were standing a second ago, and now they’re laying on a bed, and Cas doesn’t remember how they got here, but Dean is on top of him, a solid, comforting weight, laying between Castiel’s spread legs. He’s gentle at first, but then he begins to grind down against Castiel.

                Cas doesn’t think. He just meets Dean’s hips with his own, pressing up against him, their erections rubbing together through their clothes. Castiel wonders what it would be like to slide his hands up Dean’s shirt, to feel his warm skin for the first time. He wonders what would happen if he unbuckled Dean’s belt and reached inside his jeans, and wrapped his hand around Dean’s dick. It would be the first time Castiel had ever touched anyone so intimately.

                But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, because this is his subconscious mind, and secretly, it knows Castiel has never done something like that. And his brain has no experience in the matter, no memories to work with.

                But he’s okay with this. He’s okay with how this is going. He hears Dean moan low and deep in the back of his throat, kissing Castiel roughly, and Cas can’t help but moan in return, because that sound coming from Dean is _irresistible_. It’s the most delicious sound Castiel has ever heard, and he gasps as they continue to thrust against each other, dry humping there on that bed.

                Castiel can feel that burning begin to build in his lower abdomen, and he can feel the heat growing and growing in his pants. He knows he’s close, and he squeezes his eyes shut, gasping and moaning as he grinds desperately up against Dean’s every thrust.

                He can’t help it. He slides his hands down, and grabs Dean’s ass. It’s firm, and round, and perfect, and that’s all it takes for Castiel to come.

                His body jerks, and he cries out, his cry muffled by Dean’s lips, as he shoots his load in his boxers. He continues to thrust through his orgasm, and seconds later, he feels Dean stiffen, the muscles of his ass tensing as he comes too.

 

                Castiel jolts awake with a sharp breath, his body jerking a little as he snaps abruptly from the dream. He’s sweating and breathing hard, and _“Learning to Fly”_ is still playing in his ears.

                He just lays there for a moment, breathing hard, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. His body feels like it’s melted, and he doesn’t know quite why until he shifts a little.

                Oh.

                There’s a warmth in his pants, and he glances down at his crotch. A wet spot has formed, seeping through his jeans.

                _Oh my God_.

                Castiel just came in his pants.

                He just had a wet dream.

                About _Dean_.

                He’s never had a wet dream before, not about anyone. Of _course_ his first wet dream would be about Dean.

                Jesus Christ, he feels like he just lost his virginity.

                He stares at his wet crotch for a long few moments in disbelief, and then he tears his headphones out of his ears and gets up from the bed. He ignores how weak and loose his body feels after his dream-induced orgasm, and he strips out of his pants and boxers, wiping away the come and throwing his soiled clothes in his hamper. He quickly pulls on a fresh pair of boxers and a pair of sweatpants, and then just stands at his dresser, holding onto it for support and breathing hard.

                He can’t _believe_ that just happened.

                Frankly, he should’ve seen it coming. He’s been half-hard all day, ever since he saw Dean looking at him in the cafeteria. And he’s been laying on his bed listening to _Dean’s_ music, that Dean put on his iPod for reasons Castiel can’t fathom.

                Of course Castiel would fall asleep and have a dream about Dean. And what did he think his sick subconscious mind would have in store for him _besides_ a wet dream? He’s been imagining what it would be like to kiss Dean’s full lips for a long time now. He’s _wanted_ to for a long time now. Maybe ever since the first time he saw Dean at Hautley’s Bend.

                It was only a matter of time before Cas had a dream like this.

                He huffs an exasperated breath and stumbles back over, collapsing on his bed again. _“Learning to Fly”_ is still floating in his ears, and he stubbornly closes his eyes, listening to the music. Listening to _Dean’s_ music isn’t going to help him stop thinking about Dean, and frankly Cas doesn’t want to, but he still feels shitty inside for doing it. He shouldn’t be thinking about Dean. He’s accepted the crush, but it’s just unhealthy to think about him all the time. It’s just fucking unhealthy. He thinks of green eyes and melts into the lyrics once more.

                _“There’s no sensation to compare with this,_  
                suspended animation, a state of bliss.  
                Can’t keep my mind from the circling skies,  
                Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earthbound misfit, I…”

*       *       *

 

                “Ow! Dammit Sam, be careful!” Dean grumbles, flinching as Sam dabs disinfectant on the gash above Dean’s eyebrow.

                Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a baby,” he says, finishing with the cream and pressing a bandage over the wound. “There, done.”

                Dean leans back and prods at the bandage. He has a firm belief that wounds hurt _more_ as they’re healing than when they are first inflicted. This shit is tender. It hurts like a bitch.

                He watches as Sam packs up the first aid supplies on the bathroom counter. Sam has been insisting on caring for Dean’s wounds meticulously ever since John beat Dean up a week ago. Maybe it’s some leftover guilt of Sam’s. He’s probably blaming himself for the beating, like he blames himself for everything. Dean does the same thing. They’re both so mentally unstable.

                Dean also thinks that maybe Sam likes to take care of the wounds and play doctor for a while. Sam had once wanted to go to medical school after all – it was his dream for a while. Now, according to him, he wants to go to law school. Dean knows it’s because Sam’s crush Jess wants to go to law school, but he doesn’t tease or say anything, because he kind of hopes Sam _does_ go to law school, and becomes a big shot lawyer. That would make Dean so proud.

                “Lemme check your ribs really quick,” Sam says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. Dean rolls his eyes, but stands up, lifting up his shirt.

                “Sammy, I’m _fine_ ,” he insists, “You don’t have to keep doing this. I’m not dying.”

                Sam ignores him and leans in, prodding at the dark bruises over Dean’s ribs like he’s done every day since the beating. Despite the fact that Sam has seen Dean’s burn scars plenty of times since The Accident, Dean still stiffens a little at how close Sam is to them as he examines Dean’s ribs. He doesn’t like people looking at his scars. It’s one thing he’s shy about. It leaves a knotted feeling in the back of his throat. But he lets Sam do it anyway. Sam doesn’t seem to mind Dean’s scars, even though Dean knows he feels guilty about it. Dean wouldn’t have the scars if it wasn’t for the fact that he saved Sam from the burning car.

                But Dean doesn’t regret it for the world. It’s the best thing he’s ever done, saving his little brother. He doesn’t know how he could have lived without Sam.

                It may be the only _good_ thing Dean has ever done in his whole life, saving Sam.

                “Ow! Fuck, Sammy!” Dean curses, pulling away as Sam pokes too hard at a particularly tender spot on Dean’s ribs. Dean suspects that it might be fractured, but he’s had broken ribs before, so he’s been dealing with the pain in stride.

                “Sorry,” Sam mutters, straightening up, and Dean lets his shirt fall back into place.

                He pushes Dean back down on the toilet seat, forcing him to sit, and he starts poking at his face again. Dean slaps his hands away. “Dude, we’ve been in here for twenty minutes. I think it’s safe to assume my face isn’t going to fall off.”

                Sam glares at him. “Just…humor me, okay? If you won’t go to the doctor, then at least let me make sure you’re not going to suddenly have an eye pop out or something.”

                Dean goes to snap back a witty retort, when suddenly there’s a thump outside the bathroom door. They both look back as the bathroom door swings open, and John walks in looking disheveled. Last Dean checked, John has been napping all day.

                “Will you boys keep it the fuck down in here?” John grumbles, too tired to really yell. He rubs at his eyes and squints at the two of them.

                “Sorry dad,” Sam mumbles, shuffling a little closer to Dean, his fingers resting right under Dean’s eye where he was prodding at the purple bruises. Dean reaches up and slaps his hand away again as John stares at them.

                Dean looks up at his father, and John is eyeing the bruises all over Dean’s face. He looks tired and weary from his nap, but there’s a certain lucidity in his eyes. John isn’t drunk right now. It’s rare, but it happens. He’s probably hung over, but he’s sober.

                John stares at Dean’s wounds for so long that Sam and Dean both squirm a little in discomfort. And then John clears his throat. “Sorry son,” John says quietly, “About…” he gestures vaguely at his own face, indicating that he’s talking about Dean’s bruises.

                Dean blinks. _Wow_. John hasn’t apologized for hurting either of them in years. To be fair, this beating was particularly bad – probably one of the worst Dean’s ever taken from John. But Dean goaded him on. Dean _wanted_ John to hurt him, so it isn’t exactly his dad’s fault.

                Nevertheless, he nods slightly, swallowing. “Yeah,” he says, and that’s pretty much all he can say. This is awkward, John apologizing. And his father seems to realize that too.

                He sets his mouth is a grim line, and then grumbles and turns, heading out of the bathroom and back to his own bedroom. Dean waits until he hears their father’s door close again, and then he looks up at Sam. Sam raises one eyebrow, and Dean shrugs, chuckling a little and standing up.

                “I’m gonna go out for a smoke,” he tells Sam on his way out of the bathroom, “Don’t forget to finish your homework.”

                Sam rolls his eyes. “I never do.”

                Dean glances back at him briefly, and ruffles his hair. “What a stud,” he says with a grin, and then he walks out of the house, stopping by his bedroom to grab his jacket before stepping out the back door. He climbs up onto the trash barrel pulled up to the side of the house and hoists himself onto the roof, wandering over and plunking down next to the chimney, leaning against the bricks.

                He fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one up. The first drag is almost erotic, it’s so good. He hasn’t had a cigarette all day, on account of the fact that he was avoiding The Docks at all costs. If students are caught smoking anywhere else on campus, they get detention. Dean savors the hot burn of the smoke trickling down his throat and holds it there for a moment before blowing it out into the cold night air, watching it cloud up and mingle with his breath before floating away.

                He chews the filter and tastes the menthol as he takes another drag, and he lets his head drop back against the chimney, staring up at the clear winter sky. There’s no moon tonight, so Dean is shrouded completely in shadows, and the stars are vivid and bright. He can see a stripe of the Milky Way from where he is. That’s one advantage of living in a small, isolated town far from the city lights. You can see the stars more clearly, and that’s something Dean indulges in regularly.

                He finishes his first cigarette mindlessly while staring up at the stars, and immediately lights up another. The nicotine is hitting his system and it feels amazing and weightless tingling up his limbs and in his belly. He smokes this one slower, just letting it hang from his lip as he stares at the stars.

                This is the type of moment he wishes he could share with Castiel. Dean has had girlfriends and boyfriends alike before, but he never felt the way about them that he feels about Castiel. He wants to _do_ things with Cas. He wants to _see_ things. He wants to hold his hand in public and go on road trips and take those stupid strips of pictures at mall photo booths. It’s so cheesy it’s almost nauseating, but Dean wants to do all those things and more with Castiel.

                He wants to sit on his roof with Cas and look at the stars. And then he wants to make out with him. He wants to lose himself in kissing Castiel Novak. He wants to _melt_.

                And _god dammit_ Dean is the most sexually pent up person he’s ever met today. He’s been admittedly horny all day, and it’s been a couple weeks since he last took _care_ of himself in that way. Honestly, it’s been since before…

                Since before Alastair.

                And that’s just fucked up.      

                But right now he’s half-hard in his pants with just the fleeting _thought_ of kissing Castiel. And while he feels a little ill thinking about jacking off, he wants to try it. He’s jerked it to thoughts of Cas before obviously, and those were some of the best spank sessions he’s ever had.

                He takes one last drag on his second cigarette and grinds it out on the roof, flicking the stub aside and unzipping his pants. He’s hidden here against the chimney in the shadows, which he’s thankful for. The last thing he needs is squash-lady peeking out her window and seeing Dean playing with himself on the roof of his house. Boy, would that traumatize the poor old woman.  

                His dick shrinks up a little when he pulls it out of his pants and into the icy night air, but he wraps the hand that had been tucked away in his pocket around it, and his palm is warm against his hardening flesh, which helps. He closes his eyes, and tries to swallow down thoughts of how pathetic this is, jerking off to Castiel _again_ , and starts to move his hand slowly up and down his dick. He squeezes under the mushroom head, teasing at the most sensitive spot, and his legs flex and relax.

                It takes longer than usual, even when Dean reaches into his pants with his free hand and massages his balls in time with his other hand’s movements. He sets up a steady rhythm, but even so, his dick aches with the memory of claw-like, bony fingers wrapping around it and squeezing bruises into the sensitive, vulnerable flesh.

                _No._ No, he can’t think about that. He can’t think about Ghost Town. He can’t allow that to ruin jerking off and anything sexual for the rest of his life.

                Dean sets his jaw, and it’s probably the most serious he’s ever been about masturbation. He forces himself to think about Castiel, and banish all thoughts of Alastair’s bloody tongue and rancid breath from his mind. Eventually it works, obviously. It doesn’t take much for a guy to make himself come.

                He gasps and bites his lip hard to keep from moaning out loud as he comes over his hand, his balls tightening and pulsing spurts of white. Dean works himself through it, and then slumps back against the chimney, catching his breath, allowing himself to enjoy the brief post-orgasm bliss.

                It’s only when his come starts to grow tacky and cold that he moves, wiping his hand on his pants with a little grimace and tucking himself back into his pants.

                And then, he leans to the side, and vomits.

                _What the hell is happening to him_?

                And _God_ he’s getting tired of throwing up so much. He’s not going to have an esophagus left if this keeps up for much longer.

                Deep down, somewhere in his mind where he refuses to venture, he _knows_ that the reason he’s suddenly shaking so hard he can feel it in his bones, the reason he’s vomiting, is because of what happened at Ghost Town. It damaged him a lot more than he wants to admit, and that _scares_ him.

                But he doesn’t want to think about it. No. He won’t. He can’t.

                He can’t let it go on. He can’t let this ruin sex for him forever.

                What happened with Alastair wasn’t even that _bad_. Why is he freaking out?

                He just needs to push it down. Compartmentalize. He needs to swallow it all back just like he does with all his other problems, with The Accident, and with John’s drinking, and with his stupid, stupid crush on Castiel. He needs to let this go. He needs to get over it.

                He hugs himself and pulls his legs up to his chest, forcing himself not to rock back and forth like a mental patient. He turns his eyes towards the stars again, and tries to just forget about everything. To focus on the stars. To get lost in their endlessness. To pretend like he’s floating away, up into those great burning orbs of light. That would be so nice, to just disappear like that, up into space, Major Tom style.

                Dean shakily reaches for his cigarettes and lights a third one up, taking a long drag. It’s too long, and he coughs it back up, almost vomiting again before he gets control of himself and tries again, pulling more smoke into his lungs.

                It’s not working.

                He can’t distract himself. The stars aren’t distracting enough. Even thinking about Cas isn’t distracting him enough from this sudden attack his mind is having on him. He feels panic starting to claw its way up his throat, and his vision is just starting to get fuzzy at the edges, to tunnel.

                _No, no, no, no, no_! He can’t let this happen. He’s had enough panic attacks the past couple weeks since Ghost Town. He’s puked his guts out enough times. He just jerked off successfully for the first time since Alastair attacked him, and it didn’t feel good. It felt like a burden. It felt sick, and wrong.

                Dean is desperate not to panic again, but it’s not working.

                He doesn’t really think it through. He just does the first think he can think of.

                He holds his arm out, tears his sleeve up, and presses the glowing tip of his cigarette to his bare skin. It doesn’t feel like anything at first, but then suddenly it flares up in pain as the red-hot tip begins to burn his skin.

                The tip of a cigarette can reach temperatures of over 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Dean heard that somewhere once.

                He’s never felt the urge to hurt himself before. But suddenly it just seemed like the only option he had as he felt a panic attack coming on and flashbacks about what happened at Ghost Town. 

                He stares in awe as the cigarette burns his skin, and he holds it on there. Pain vibrates up his arm, pulsing and intense and agonizing. It somehow doesn’t feel at all the same as when he was on fire during The Accident. Maybe because he has control over this. Maybe because he’s doing this to himself.

                He holds the cigarette on his skin so long that eventually, the glowing tip fades out and dies. And it’s only then that Dean pulls it away. There’s a perfectly circular burn on his arm, and in the meager light from the streetlamp across the way, he can see a ring of white, burned flesh, with little dots of black ash stuck in it.

                And then it sinks in. He just put a cigarette out on his arm.

                _He just put a fucking cigarette out on his arm_.

                How did that just happen?

                He knows why he did it, but suddenly, his problems don’t seem to matter anymore as endorphins flood his body from the pain. That was simultaneously the best and worst thing Dean could have done in that moment of panic.

                He stared wide-eyed at his burned arm for a long several minutes. His hands are shaking, but it’s okay suddenly. He feels okay. _Wow_ , who knew controlling your pain could feel so good?

                He sits there so long just staring, that eventually, the burned skin starts to swell as it blisters. He watches in fascination as the blister slowly forms, eventually bubbling up into a few little round globes on the tiny, circular burn. Dean bites his lip as he reaches over and prods gently at one of the little globes with the tip of his finger. There’s a dull ache in his arm, but for the most part, he can’t feel anything on the actual burn. He thinks maybe the skin is dead there.

                Dean huffs a little laugh, and then swallows shakily. His stomach feels heavy, but it’s a fuzzy, strange kind of heavy, like he swallowed a bomb and is just waiting for it to explode. But it never does. It’s a dud.

                And suddenly, he has the urge to do it again. He’s not sure if he should, because surely the burns will scar. But right now, he can’t actually find it within himself to care all that much. He just wants to forget about Ghost Town. _He just wants to forget._  So he reaches over, feeling strangely numb, and heavy, like he’s high. He scoops his lighter up, and lights up the same cigarette again, and he holds it over his forearm.

                He can feel the heat radiating off of the glowing tip, a tendril of smoke streaming towards the sky in a string of white. It’s harder this time, to get himself to press it down, because he knows it’s going to hurt, and he’s not panicking blindly this time. But at the same time, it’s a _good_ kind of hurt. And he thinks of the euphoric feeling of the endorphins rushing through his body after the pain fades.

                He swallows past his dry throat, heart throbbing rhythmically, hands shaking.

                And he does it.

                He presses down, right next to the first burn.

                The glowing tip has the same effect. It feels like nothing at first, and then the pain begins. Dean grits his teeth, his forehead scrunching up as agony flares through his arm. It’s horrible. It’s amazing. It’s harder this time than it was the first time, but he keeps the tip of the cigarette pressed firmly to his bare skin on the inside of his forearm until the glowing red fades out once more and the cigarette is snuffed.

                Dean huffs out a breath of relief when he feels those endorphins flood his body, and he closes his eyes, hanging his head, dropping the cigarette somewhere on the roof. And he sits like that for a while, with his eyes closed. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He doesn’t feel happy, but he didn’t really expect to. He feels kind of empty. But it feels sort of good. It’s better than feeling so full of every trauma that it’s like he’s going to explode.

                He sits there for so long that Sam actually comes out of the house and calls up to him to hurry up and come inside before he freezes to death out here.

                Dean blinks his eyes open and looks down at the two circular burns on his arm. They feel good. They’re like battle scars.

                It feels so good.

                And that makes Dean feel guilty as hell, and weak. But he doesn’t care right now.

                He pulls down his sleeve, wincing as it rubs over the burns, and then claws at the bricks of the chimney, using it to pull himself to his feet. His legs are shaking like Jell-O, but he forces himself to wander over to the edge of the roof, climbing down unsteadily onto the trash cans and wandering inside.

                He tries to keep his face even as he walks into Sam’s room and checks on him. He ruffles Sam’s hair just like he always does, and says goodnight to him even though it’s not that late. Sam eyes him strangely, because he can tell Dean is acting weird. Dean _knows_ he’s acting weird. But he slips out of Sam’s room before Sam can ask any questions.

                Dean walks into his own room and closes the door, and just stands there for a few minutes in the dark. His forearm is throbbing, and it feels wonderful. It’s the best feeling in the world right now. It’s amazing. Why didn’t he try this years ago?

                Eventually, he strips down, peeling his jacket off slowly, making sure he doesn’t pop the blisters on his arm. He throws all his clothes on the floor. He doesn’t even care. He doesn’t care about anything right now. He’s floating, and it feels so good. He doesn't even have the mental capacity to think about Alastair, and wasn't that sort of the whole point?

               He collapses onto his mattress in his boxers, and pulls the blankets up to his chin, and in the light of the streetlamp out his window, he stares up at the origami Yoda’s spinning lazily above him.

                And he feels nothing. He actually feels nothing. 

                It's spectacular. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief note -- I inadvertently discovered that the song [Learning To Fly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2mKDvp7MavQ) by Pink Floyd is absolutely fucking perfect for this fic while I was writing this chapter. If you guys have time, I highly recommend you look it up and take a listen. It's a beautiful song. Or more importantly, look up the [lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/pinkfloyd/learningtofly.html). They are sooooo fitting for this fic <3 And pretty Destiely to be honest :P  
> Thanks for reading guys!


	13. Smile

Over the next couple weeks, Castiel throws himself into rehearsing for the winter play. He finds it surprisingly easy to embody the mindset of a bully and play one in the show. He didn't know it would be this easy, but apparently it is. He supposes he's had enough experience with the way bullies act to be able to successfully play one. Even Pamela is impressed, which feels pretty good to be honest.

                Marv, the janitor who wrote the play, attends a couple of the rehearsals, and he seems to approve. Castiel isn't sure if he likes Marv very much, but he doesn't say anything. Gabe, however, the ultimate unfiltered one, states that Marv sort of reminds him of a fungus, and he's not a very good janitor anyway. He doesn't even clean the bathrooms in The Dungeon, and according to Gabriel, it's one of the best places to take a quiet public shit in the entire high school. Charlie makes a gagging noise and walks away to go hang out with Dorothy. Castiel just laughs, and Gabe shrugs.

                As time goes on, Cas finds it easier to walk home through the woods without panicking because he thinks the Cancers are following him. He always passes by The Docks on the way home, and they're always there, and while they continue to taunt him, things don't escalate to the point they did after Thanksgiving Break. Castiel is thankful for that. He's actually a little disappointed when he doesn't see Dean at The Docks with his friends day after day, but he tries to ignore it. 

                He still looks for the deer though, every time he walks by the spot where he spent the night in the woods. He still looks, but he never sees it, even when he stands there for a few minutes in silence, waiting for it to come out of the brush.

                In addition to rehearsing for the play, working at Bobby's shop, and trying his best to prepare for mid-year exams, Castiel spends every waking moment he can listening to his iPod. He's grown very fond of Dean's music, and he spends more time listening to it than he does his own music. He still listens to Beethoven and Celtic lullabies and all those things he used to listen to before Dean loaded his music on there still, but now Cas also listens to AC/DC, and Steam, and Joan Jett. He's grown quite fond of the song _"Ramble On"_ by Led Zeppelin. It's relaxing, and sweet, and actually sort of cute. And of course, he spends hours listening to _"Learning to Fly"_ by Pink Floyd on a loop, although he avoids laying down when he does it because he doesn't want to fall asleep and have a dream about Dean again. It's too much.

                It's getting a little easier to be in the same room as Dean. He's noticed a bit of a change in him, but it's very subtle. There's a look in Dean's eyes, like Dean is dreaming while he's awake. And if Castiel weren't so attuned to Dean and his every move, he wouldn't have seen it.

                He's also noticed that Dean doesn't go outside to The Docks anymore during lunch. Castiel wonders if maybe Dean and his friends had a falling out. Dean sits inside with the rest of the students in the cafeteria, although usually he's sitting alone. He doesn't seem to mind though. Dean spends the majority of lunch looking at Castiel. Cas tries his best not to stare back, but he can see Dean out of the corner of his eye eating his lunch and staring in Castiel's direction. Cas just keeps his eyes on his origami and pretends he doesn't notice, but by the time lunch ends and he has to go to math class, he's already sweating and half-hard in his pants, every time. It's almost unbearable.

                Math class is getting easier at least. Dean stares at him in there too, but most of the time, Castiel can't see him because he sits in the front of the room. But he can _feel_ Dean staring, and sometimes it gets the best of him and he has to rush out of there and splash his face with cold water in the bathroom. He tricks himself a couple times into thinking that maybe he's getting over Dean, maybe he's _finally_ getting over it...but then he sees Dean again, and it's like a punch in the gut. And his crush only grows stronger every day. As does the urge to just grab Dean and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

                It's pathetic. It's painful. And it's wonderful.

                Thinking about Dean should make Castiel feel sick, scared even. But instead, it makes him feel warm. When he's in a bad mood, he'll think about those big green eyes and that muscular back (which he can't seem to stop dreaming about) and suddenly, his mood will lighten. He still feels a little sad when he thinks about Dean though, because he knows he can never have him. Dean would probably punch him right in the mouth if Castiel decided to act on his impulses and kiss him.

                So he sits there quietly, and he pines. And he throws himself into rehearsal and homework and hanging out with Anna at Hautley's Bend. He has movie nights with Gabe, Kevin, and Charlie, and he forces himself not to talk about Dean. He keeps it all in his head. He doesn't deny it anymore, but he keeps it to himself.

                And he masturbates. A lot. Because that's just about the closest he's ever going to get to having any sort of _anything_ with Dean.

                God, this is terrible.

                It's the middle of the day on Wednesday, their last week of school, when Castiel is at his locker switching out books for one class with the next. He's zoned out, his headphones in, listening to _"It's My Life"_ by Bon Jovi, thinking about Dean _of course_ , since he's listening to Dean's music. Castiel has developed a habit of imagining where Dean would be if he was listening to a particular song. He imagines Dean laying on his bed listening to Pink Floyd, and maybe driving around listening to AC/DC. While listening to Bon Jovi, Cas imagines that Dean would be sitting on the creaky wooden swing at Hautley's Bend, smoking a cigarette and trying to lose himself in the music like Castiel keeps losing himself in thoughts of Dean.

                Cas is so enveloped by the music and stuffing different notebooks into his backpack, that he doesn't see the Cancers coming up behind him until it's too late. Someone's shoulder slams into his back, and Castiel makes a startled little noise as he's shoved into his locker. He catches himself just in time before his face smacks into the shelf at the top of the locker, and his headphones fall out of his ears.

                He straightens himself up, but it's just in time for someone to grab handfuls of his shirt and spin him around, slamming him back against the lockers again. The hallway is nearly empty apart from himself, the Cancers, and a couple stragglers who stare at Castiel being picked on with weird expression on their faces before continuing on. No one really tries to stop the Cancers when they're picking on other students. No one wants to be their next target. Castiel gets it - he does - but it would be nice to have someone stick up for him every once in a while.

                Gordon is the one holding him back against the locker, and he grins when Castiel looks at him. Cas's eyes dart around, looking at all of the other Cancers. He's not surprised that Dean isn't with them - Dean hasn't been hanging out with his friends for a while now, the reason for which is unknown to Castiel. And the fact that Dean isn't with them, and it's just Gordon, Crowley, Zach, and Alastair right now, is a little unnerving to Castiel. It's stupid that he feels safer when Dean is around, but he does.

                "It's been a while since we've crossed paths Novak," Gordon grins, and when Castiel doesn't say anything, Gordon yanks him away from the locker and slams him back against it again. Cas winces, but doesn't otherwise make a sound. Gordon doesn't like being ignored - Castiel learned that a while ago. 

                "Hey! Where'd you get that?" Zach suddenly says, and Castiel glances at him just as Zach snatches Cas's iPod out of his hand.

                Right. Zach stole Castiel's iPod in the woods when they attacked him. He must not have known that Dean returned it to Cas. Castiel wants to reach out and snatch his iPod back from Zachariah, because he _really_ likes Dean's music, and he doesn't want it to be stolen from him. But Gordon is pinning him to the locker, and Cas won't fight back.

                "Say Castiel, do you know where we could find our boy Dean?" Alastair asks, coming forward, and his voice is so awful, like nails on a chalkboard, "He hasn't been hanging around us these past few weeks, and a little birdie tells me it's got something to do with you."

                Cas's eyebrows press together. "Why would I know anything about him?" he asks, and his voice sounds a bit too defensive. Why is he even encouraging them right now? He should just stay quiet.

                Al shrugs with a little purse of his chapped lips. "Well he does seem to have taken a liking to you," he says, and he sounds a little angry in a way, almost like he's jealous. But that makes no sense, because Castiel knows Dean doesn't like him. Not like that at least. Maybe he stares at him a lot, and it messes with Cas's head, but Dean doesn't _like_ him. That's the stupidest thing he's ever heard.

                But he doesn't say anything, because it's best just to not encourage the Cancers. They're going to do what they're going to do, and nothing Castiel can say is going to stop them.

                Crowley pulls the sleeve of his pea coat up just a bit and glances at his watch. "Can we hurry this along, gentlemen? I have a project due in my next class that can't be late." Gordon glances back at Crowley, rolling his eyes, and then he shrugs, and throws a punch.

                Castiel isn't expecting it, and his head snaps to the side as Gordon's fist lands across his jaw. Usually there's some sort of indication that he's going to be punched first, but this one sort of comes out of the blue. Alastair jumps in and socks him once in the stomach, but Castiel doesn't have any room to hunch over with the blow, and the next hit lands across his temple.

                _Damn it_. He really didn't miss this whole beating thing. They haven't actually beaten him up since Cas was attacked in the forest - just thrown insults his way and occasionally shoved him in the halls. But Castiel should have known that this was coming. He was bound to get beaten up again sooner or later.

                The Cancers only get a few punches in though, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Zach just fiddling with his iPod, not even caring about the fight in front of him.

                And then, Gordon suddenly falls to the side with a shout, and his hands leave Castiel's shoulders. Cas falls to the ground without the support of Gordon holding him against the lockers, and he cradles his face for a second, shaking off the most recent punch. When he looks up to see why Gordon suddenly stopping hitting him, his heart skips a beat.

                Dean is there, out of _nowhere_ , and he's shoving Gordon away. Alastair gets a kick in to Castiel's ribs, not even stopping, and Cas gags once as the wind is knocked out of him before Dean turns around and shoves Al away roughly. Alastair stumbles back, almost tripping with how hard Dean shoves him, and then Dean stands over Castiel, blocking him from the rest of the Cancers.

                "Leave him the fuck alone. All of you," he hears Dean growl, glaring at his friends. Cas sees Crowley's eyebrows shoot towards the sky, and Gordon and Alastair laugh. Al leans to the side and locks eyes with Castiel.

                "Told you," Al says to Castiel, giving Cas a sharp grin, and Castiel has to search his brain for a moment to figure out what Alastair is talking about. But then he remember Alastair saying that Dean has taken a liking to Castiel. Is it true? Cas finds that hard to believe, but...

                _What is Dean doing then_? Why did he stop them?

                "Are you serious?" Gordon asks Dean, "What the hell are you doing Winchester?"

                "Just fuck off," Dean snaps, waving his hand towards the end of the hallway, "Get the fuck out of here."

                Zach stares at Dean in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? First, you ditch us for three weeks straight, and now you're defending some loser? What the hell is wrong with you?"

                Castiel sees Dean's hands clench into fists, but Dean doesn't hit Zach. Instead, he reaches out and snatches Castiel's iPod out of Zachariah's hand, and then gives Zach a shove. "Get the fuck out of here. All of you. Go," he snarls, "I won't say it again."

                The Cancers exchange glances with each other, and at this point, they all look pretty damn pissed off. Castiel is still hunched on the ground, frozen. He doesn't know what to do. Should he run? What is he supposed to do? No one has ever defended him like this before, especially not one of his bullies. And Dean is practically on _top_ of him, he's standing over him so much. Castiel would have to wiggle his way out from between Dean's bowlegs and the lockers to stand up and run away.

                So he stays frozen there on the floor as the four Cancers snort and shake their heads, turning and walking away.

                "Fuck you Winchester," Gordon snaps, flipping Dean off as they walk down the hall.

                "Yeah, yeah, just keep walking," Dean snarls. Gordon, Zach, and Crowley saunter off down the hall, grumbles to themselves about what a fucking dick Dean has become, but Alastair lingers behind for a moment.

                Dean turns his eyes onto Al, and Castiel isn't sure if he imagines Dean shuffling back a half an inch away from the snake-like guy. Al is giving Dean a sharp glare. He looks angry, but there's also a twinkle in his eye, like he's amused.

                "Get the fuck out of here Alastair," Dean growls, his voice actually wavering a bit.

                "We haven't talked in a while Dean," Al says casually, "How have you been?"

                Dean doesn't say anything, but Castiel can feel anger rolling off of Dean in waves. Dean's hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, Cas's iPod clutched in one, and Cas thinks he can see fine tremors running through them like Dean is a coiled spring.

                Al chuckles a little when Dean doesn't respond, and then he takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between himself and Dean. This time, Dean does move back a step, and is nearly standing on top of Castiel now. And it's almost like Castiel is invisible? It's like he's suddenly not there, and Dean and Al are the only ones in the hallway, just having a casual chat. But there's something weird about the way Al is talking to him, like there's a whole back story here.

                "Well anyway, it was good to see you," Alastair says, his voice cloyingly sweet, like poisoned molasses, dripping and sickening. He reaches out a hand, and Dean actually full-body _flinches_ when he does, but Al doesn't stop. He pats Dean gently on the shoulder, his hand lingering there for a moment, and Dean's arm snaps up, hitting Alastair's hand away roughly. Al stumbles a little with the hit and chuckles again, shaking his head.

                Then he turns, and without another word, saunters off down the hallway after the rest of the Cancers, whistling to himself.

                Dean and Castiel both watch after him, and Dean is shaking with what Castiel can only assume is rage. They stay there for a while, until all the Cancers disappear around the corner, and then Dean takes a step forward, blowing all the breath out of his lungs as he turns around.

                He reaches down without a word, and takes Castiel's arm, helping him up from the floor. Castiel eyes him cautiously. Why is Dean helping him?

                "Are you okay?" Dean asks, and Castiel swallows hard. He can't really get himself to speak at the moment, so he just nods. Dean bites his lip, and looks down at the iPod in his hands for a moment before handing it back to Cas.

                Castiel hesitates before taking it, plucking it out of Dean's hand, and their fingers brush together briefly. It's like electricity, and Cas snatches his hand away quickly before he does something stupid like surge forward and kiss Dean right here and now. His gaze flickers briefly to Dean's lips, and then back up to his eyes before he looks away completely and reaches down to pick up his backpack from the floor. He throws his iPod inside and zips it up, all the while feeling Dean's eyes on him as he closes his locker.

                "Seriously man, why don't you fight back?" Dean asks suddenly, and Castiel looks back at him.

                "What?"

                Dean huffs a little laugh, humorless and brief. "Why don't you defend yourself? You're not a weak guy. Just stick up for yourself for once."

                Castiel just blinks at Dean for a moment. "Why do you care?" he asks. Dean actually _blushes_ then, and looks away, and _God_ , Castiel has to do everything in his power not to close the space between them and kiss that blush right off Dean's cheeks. He wonders if that's what Dean looks like when he's aroused, if that blush spreads down to his broad chest.

                He shakes himself, tearing his eyes away and slinging his backpack onto his shoulder. "I have to go," Castiel says, making to turn and walk away, and then he stops, glancing back at Dean. Dean has lifted his head and is looking at Castiel again with a strange expression. "Thank you," Cas adds, biting the inside of his cheek, "For stopping them."

                Dean's neck ripples as he swallows. "Sure," he replies, clearing his throat, "Um...see you in math."

                Cas eyes him for another moment, and then turns and walks away quickly, before he can give in to his urge to kiss Dean, to hug him, to just _touch_ him. This is unbearable. And that whole situation was sort of fucking awkward to be honest. That was probably the second longest conversation he has ever had with Dean.

                He forces himself not to look back as he rounds the corner and hurries to his next class before he's late. And for the rest of the period, he can't help but feel a little warm inside, his fingertips tingling, his heart throbbing. Because Dean just _stood up_ for him. Why did he do that? Why did he stop the other Cancers from hurting him? Castiel pulls his iPod out of his backpack in class and just runs his fingers along the edges. It's like the iPod is a part of Dean now, and probably the only part of Dean he's ever going to get.

                He doesn't know what he's feeling. He feels light, and giddy, and sick, and awful, and brilliant. This boy is making Castiel lose his mind.

 

*       *       *

 

                He shifts his bag more securely onto his shoulders and then raises his hand, knocking on the door to the school counselor's office. Castiel has never done this before. He's never talked to anyone about his problems. He just sort of assumed that no one cares. But he needs to talk to _someone_ about this whole thing with Dean, because he can't handle it on his own. He's going crazy.

                "Come in," he hears the counselor call, and he blows out a breath and opens the door, wandering inside cautiously. The counselor is sitting at her desk typing away on her computer. Her office is a comforting environment. She has a couple couches with beaded pillows on them, and pictures of family members hanging on the walls. There's a fish tank in the corner filled with little frogs, and Castiel actually smiles. Maybe he'll make origami frogs for his next mobile at Bobby's shop. He's always liked frogs.

                "I'll be done in just a sec," the counselor says, clicking a few things on the computer, typing one more sentence, and then exiting out of what she's working on, spinning around in her chair. "Done! Castiel Novak, right?"

                Cas nods, quirking a little smile. The school counselor is a pretty lady, with dark, curled hair and kind brown eyes. She exudes warmth, and Castiel feels himself relax marginally. Until, that is, he notices that she has a little radio on her desk turned on low, and he recognizes the classic rock song coming from the speakers as one of Dean's songs on his iPod. _Great._

                The counselor holds out her hand with a warm smile that makes her eyes twinkle. "I'm Ms. Roberts, but you can call me Cara. I hate when people call me Miss. It just reminds me of my divorce." She laughs, and Castiel allows himself to chuckle a little as he shakes her proffered hand. He's such an awkward guy, he doesn't really understand sarcasm. But she's laughing, so he supposes she's probably joking.

                "You signed up for an appointment today?" Cara asks, more rhetorically than anything, gesturing towards the green couch against the wall, "Grab a seat."

                Cas clears his throat and pulls his backpack off his shoulders, hugging it to his stomach as he sits down on the edge of the cushion. "I just...needed to work some things out in my head," he says hesitantly. He doesn't really know how this works, the whole therapy thing. He doesn't really understand why he's so nervous, but he just is.

                "What's going on?" Cara asks, standing to close the door after flipping a sign that says **Appointment in Session** on the outside. She sits back in her chair and crosses her legs, leaning back, getting comfortable. Cas wishes he could do the same.

                "Um..." Castiel begins, not really sure where to start, "Well...I guess I have a crush on someone who I really shouldn't have a crush on. I need to know how to make it stop."

                Cara tilts her head to the side with a smile. "And why shouldn't you have a crush on this person?"

                Cas bites his lip. "It's Dean Winchester."

                Understanding flickers across Cara's face, and she purses her lips. "Ah," she says, "Quite a reputation he has. But why can't you have a crush on him?"

                Castiel huffs a little laugh. "Well you just said it yourself. Dean has a reputation for a reason," he replies, "He and his friends have been bullying me constantly since the beginning of the year."

                Cara nods, but no sympathy crosses her face. Castiel is relieved by that. Pretty much every time he tells anyone he's bullied, they immediately pity him as if being bullied is the most awful thing in the world. It sucks, but it's just kind of, whatever. He doesn't need people's sympathy. "Why do you think you have a crush on him?" she asks, reaching for her travel coffee mug on her desk and taking a sip.

                Castiel finally leans back against the backrest of the couch, sighing. "I have no idea," he says, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair, "I mean...Dean is obviously attractive. But it's more than that...Like the first time I saw him, he wasn't with his friends. He was at Hautley's Bend with his little brother, and he gave me this _smile_ that was just...it was one of the nicest smiles I've ever seen."

                The corner of Cara's mouth quirks up as she takes another sip of her coffee. "I love a good smile," she chuckles, "Is there any other reason you can think of for why you like him?"

                Castiel swallows, and chews on his lip as he wracks his brain. "I don't really know," he says, "I mean, for the first couple months of school, Dean was nothing but mean to me. But he looked at me sometimes like...I don't know, like he was actually _seeing_ me, you know?"

                Cara nods. "Did that feel good?"

                Cas smiles a little. "It felt amazing. No one's ever looked at me like that before."

                She purses her lips, her eyes twinkling. "Can you think of anything nice that Dean has ever done for you?" she asks.

                Castiel's mind immediately floats back to when he was in Dean's bathtub. That wasn't exactly _nice_ per se, but it was definitely unexpected. So he tells Cara about it. He tells her about what happened in the woods, leaving out the more graphic stuff, and he tells her about waking up in Dean's bathtub. Cara's face pops with surprise, and she smiles a little as Cas talks.

                "And then, this morning," Castiel continues, "Dean's friends started to mess with me at my locker...and Dean just stopped them out of nowhere. He stood up for me, and no one's ever done _that_ before either. He's been acting so strange, and staring at me in class and stuff. I just don't know how to respond."

                Cara takes another sip of her coffee before setting it back on her desk. "It sounds to me like maybe Dean is coming around," she points out.

                Cas shrugs a little. "He's definitely acting weird but...Dean isn't a good guy. He has some good in him, but he's not a good guy to have a crush on."

                Cara cocks her head a little. "How do you know? Maybe there's another side to Dean that you're sensing, and that's the reason you have a crush on him."

                Castiel runs his hand through his hair again, looking over at the little frogs in their tank. "I don't know..." he says, "I just really need to stop. I need to get over this. Do you know how I can get over it?"

                Cara sighs and shrugs. "The best I can think of is maybe trying to go on dates with other people," she suggests, "Force yourself to move on, and eventually, I think the crush will fade."

                Castiel purses his lips, his mind wandering back to Alfie in theatre. Maybe Alfie would go on a date with Cas. He wonders if that'll even work. Cara leans forward a bit in her chair, studying Castiel, and Cas looks back at her as she chuckles a little.

                "I don't think anything is wrong with you Castiel," she says, "In my opinion, I think you have a gift."

                Castiel's eyebrows press together in confusion. "What do you mean?"

                She shrugs. "You _see_ people. You see the good in them," she says folding her hands together in front of her, "So tell me, what good do you see in Dean?"

                Castiel blinks at her, swallowing, rubbing his arm where Dean touched him this morning to help him up from the ground. He can feel Dean's strong hand still on him. It felt so amazing. He hates that one little touch from the guy can make him feel like he's having a heart attack.

                "I suppose...he's very good with his brother. At least from what I've seen the few times I've seen them together at Hautley's Bend," Cas says, "And he did defend me this morning. I don't know."

                "Well see?" Cara says, "There's some good in him right there. You've caught glimpses of his other side. Now is it so bad that you have a crush on that side of him?"

                Castiel huffs a little breath, licking his lips and shrugging. "I suppose not," he says, "But it still doesn't change the fact that it's unhealthy for me to have a crush on my bully."

                Cara makes a little thinking noise. "But is he really your bully anymore? You say he defended you this morning. Maybe he's changed his mind about picking on you."

                Castiel looks at her, and he actually sees her point, which sort of scares him. She sounds a bit like Missouri, and what her thoughts were on Dean. And Castiel knows there's good in Dean. He knows there's a _lot_ of good in Dean that Dean doesn't let people see. Somehow, Castiel can see it though. He sees it in the way Dean's expressions shift sometimes, and in the way Dean acts with his brother Sam. He sees it in the regret Dean had in his eyes the day Castiel woke up in his bathtub, and the way Dean looks at him sometimes like he sees something in Castiel too.

                Cas swallows and goes to say something else, but then the warning bell rings signaling the end of the period. He's here over his lunch, and his stomach is growling a bit, but he felt like this was more important. Cara quirks a little grin at him. "I guess our time is up," she says, leaning forward a bit, "You up for some homework?"

                Cas snorts. "I have enough homework as it is."

                She chuckles. "Not that kind of homework. It's not too hard. I just want you to try something."

                Castiel shrugs. "Alright, I suppose."

                "If you're up for it, I want you to try to smile at Dean the next time you see him," she says, "Just give him a little smile. Try to be friendly, you know? You don't have to say anything to him. Just smile. Acknowledge his presence."

                Castiel feels a little nervous flutter in his stomach at the thought of smiling at Dean. It would be nice, and it would feel good, but isn't that the same as flirting? "Why?"

                Cara shrugs again. "Just an experiment. I'm thinking that maybe if you smile and start to acknowledge Dean, he'll warm up a bit. And then you won't feel so bad about this crush of yours. Maybe you can even be friends."

                Castiel actually laughs a little nervous laugh at the thought of he and Dean becoming friends. That actually sounds ridiculous. But he doesn't argue. He just nods. "I'll try," he promises Cara, and she nods and smiles.

                "Great," she says, "Come back and see me sometime soon, tell me how it goes." She scoots back in her chair and waves him off. "Now get out of here before you're late," she adds, smiling widely at him. Castiel thinks he likes her a lot. She's not like what he expected a counselor to act like. She's warm and goofy, and surprisingly intuitive. And Castiel _does_ feel better after talking out his thoughts with her. She's made him feel better about this whole situation.

                He gives her one last smile, and eyes her tank of frogs once more, before he exits her office. His stomach flutters nervously as he makes his way to class, because his next class is math. He knows Dean will be there, and he hasn't quite mentally prepared himself yet for this _smile_ he has to do. He wonders if maybe he can put it off for a little bit, and smile at Dean some other time. Maybe put it off until tomorrow.

                But he shouldn't. He should just get it over with. Just smile once at Dean and call it a day. If he doesn't, he'll just be worrying about it all night.

                When he walks into class, Dean isn't at his desk yet. So Castiel takes a seat in the front of the room where he usually sits. Mr. Wyatt doesn't have assigned seating in his classroom, but students have pretty much just picked the seats they want and have stuck to them all semester. Castiel thinks maybe he might switch it up next semester and sit somewhere else as he rifles through his backpack and pulls out all the supplies he needs for math.

                When he has his notebook out and open, and the date written at the top of his paper, like the good little straight-A student that he is, he raises his eyes. In his peripheral vision, he sees Dean walk into the classroom, and Dean's eyes instantly fall on Castiel, like they've been prone to do the past few weeks. Only this time, Castiel raises his head and returns Dean's gaze. And he freezes up. He doesn't know why he's so nervous, but he freezes up, and ends up just staring back at Dean with a blank face.

                Dean looks a little surprised that Castiel is looking at him, because Cas usually avoids looking at Dean in the cafeteria and in math class. He flushes, a little pink tinge to his cheeks that Castiel finds _so_ endearing, and Dean glances away, walking to his desk quickly, and out of Castiel's line of vision.

                _Damn it_. Now the only way Castiel can smile at Dean is if he actually turns and looks back at him, and that doesn't seem casual enough. But he has to do it now. He has to get this over with, or he won't be able to focus for the entire class. The bell rings just as the last students are taking their seats, and Mr. Wyatt is scribbling a few things on the chalkboard in the front of the room. Everyone is still chattering away with each other since class hasn't exactly started yet.

                Cas has to do it now, while he has the chance.

                So he swallows back all his nerves, gulps past the lump in his throat, and just does it. All he has to do is turn his head a little to see Dean's desk. Dean is staring ahead at what Mr. Wyatt is writing on the board, but he glances at Cas when he sees him looking in his peripheral vision. They just stare at each other across the room for a couple seconds, and then Cas musters up the courage to do it.

                He smiles.

                It's a tiny smile, just the corners of his mouth lifting, barely there. He's been told by a lot of people that his eyes are very expressive, and when he smiles, even if the smile is small, his eyes twinkle with it. So he relies on that, because his lips are frozen. The smile doesn't last very long, and he sees Dean's throat ripple as he swallows, his face surprised.

                Dean's so surprised, that he doesn't have a chance to smile back before Mr. Wyatt starts talking, and Castiel turns back around. His heart is throbbing and his stomach is full of butterflies, but they're not nerves anymore. It's just that happy, fluttery feeling of being in the same room as your crush. And for once, it doesn't feel bad.

                Cara was right. That felt amazing. Even if Dean was too surprised to smile back. It felt good.

                And Castiel has to force himself not to sit there grinning like an idiot at his desk for the rest of math.

 

*       *      *

 

                A couple days later on Friday, the last day of school before winter break starts, Dean sees banners and posters hanging all over the school advertising the winter play. Tickets are free for students and five dollars for any outsiders that come in. There are three showings at 7PM on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and Dean has never been to a school play before, but he thinks he might go. Mostly because he can't stop thinking about the way Cas smiled at him, and how it lit up his whole face, and how those blue eyes sparkled like sapphires.

                And _God_ Dean hates the fact that he's got poetic thoughts swimming around in his head because of Castiel. _Sapphires_ , really? He scoffs and closes his locker, pushing his way past crowds of students excited about the fact that the school day just ended and it's officially winter break.

                Dean's never been too thrilled about breaks from school, because that means he has to spend more time at home where his father is. It's cool that he gets to hang out with Sammy more, but John is a pain in the ass when he's grumpy in the middle of the day, and Dean can avoid that when he's at school.

                He's considering maybe texting Crowley to hang out. When it's just Crowley, it's nice. He doesn't have to deal with Gordon's cockiness, or Zach being a spoiled brat, or Alastair being...Alastair.

                But he misses Crowley. The pompous Brit is his best friend.

                Dean pushes his way out the door of The Dungeon and hugs himself as the chill of winter hits him hard. It's actually snowing a little, but it's so light that the snow looks like ashes floating through the air. Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets, quickly lighting up a cigarette and holding it between his lips so he can warm his hands up.

                Just like every day, he has to pass The Docks on his way to the woods to go home. He tries to rush out of school quickly and get to the woods before his friends are at The Docks, but today he was a little late. He can't help but look over there as he passes by, despite the fact that he doesn't really want to.

                And _of fucking course_ he would immediately lock eyes with Al. It's mostly because of the fact that Alastair is already looking at him as he walks, and Dean is getting real fucking tired of the way Al stares at him. It makes his skin crawl. And doesn't Al have any fucking shame at all? He shouldn't be looking at Dean the way he's looking at him after what he did to Dean at Ghost Town. What gives him the goddamn right? Is he really that fucked up in the head?

                When he looks at Alastair, Al grins at him, just like he always does when Dean happens to see him. Dean can't help it. He can taste phantom blood in his mouth, can feel the memory of his teeth sinking into Alastair's tongue. He shivers and almost drops his cigarette from where it's clasped between his lips. Al raises his hand and waves at him, just a little wiggle of his fingers, and Dean glares and looks away, fighting back a wave of nausea as he disappears into the woods.

                This is so stupid. It was disgusting what happened at Ghost Town, but shouldn't Dean be getting over it by now? It's been since November, and it's already almost Christmas now. It's been almost a month since Al attacked him. So why does Dean still get chills down his spine every time he sees Alastair? Why does he still have trouble sleeping sometimes? Why can't he even _jerk off_ without throwing up and having a panic attack? He's blue-balling himself because he can't just get the fuck over it already and masturbate like a normal teenage boy.

                Dean works himself up into a pretty foul mood by the time he gets home, but he tries to swallow it down. He doesn't want to be in a bad mood in front of Sam anymore. His poor brother is getting emotional whiplash from Dean. Dean needs to pull himself together. He's supposed to be the strong one in the family. He's supposed to be the one who worries about Sam - not the other way around.

                He takes a minute to finish his cigarette and calm down outside his house. He fights the urge to pull up his sleeve and press the glowing tip to his arm again. He doesn't have any privacy right now, and as much as he wants to do it, he doesn't want anyone to see him burning himself like a regular emo.

                Dean knows it's sick, that he's taken a liking to burning his arm. He knows deep down that it's classic self-mutilation, but he refuses to acknowledge that fact. He doesn't want to think of it like that. This is only temporary, right? Just until he gets over what Alastair did. Just until he can deal with it on his own without hurting himself. And it's not like he's going to start cutting himself. So technically it doesn't count, right? Isn't that how it works?

                He swallows and shakes off the urge to put out his cigarette on his skin, and stubs it out on the side of his house instead, flicking the butt into the window well and heading inside.

                "Sammy, you home?" he calls as he carries his backpack down the hall.

                "My room!" Sam replies, and Dean puts on his best happy face before he wanders in there, flopping down on Sam's bed just like he always does.

                "Whatcha doing?" he asks, and Sam gives him a weird look.

                "You're unusually chipper," he comments, "What's got you in a good mood?"

                Dean snorts. "It's winter break," he says, "No school for three weeks. It's awesome."

                Sam rolls his eyes. "I guess," he says, and Dean laughs.

                "You're such a nerd. You like school too much."

                Sam chews on his lip. "It just sucks not being able to see Jess."

                Dean actually laughs, and it's a genuine laugh. "Aww, poor baby," he teases, "Haven't you asked her out already?"

                Sam flushes red. "Actually...I have a date with her next week."

                Dean's eyes widen and he actually sits up. "Are you serious?" he asks, a smile spreading across his face, and Sam nods sheepishly. Dean whoops triumphantly. "Way to go little brother!" He holds his hand up for a high-five, and Sam just raises one eyebrow and looks at it.

                Dean rolls his eyes and takes Sam's wrist, slapping his hand against Dean's, forcing him to give him a high-five. Sam pulls his hand back. "Don't make a big deal out of it. I don't know if she even likes me."

                "Well she said yes right?" Dean points out, and Sam nods, "So she likes you!"

                Sam pauses, thinking that over, and then he smiles a little, not saying anything, looking back down at his homework. And Dean has _no_ idea why Sam is even _doing_ his homework right now when he has the next three weeks to do it over winter break.

                Dean flops back on the bed and tucks his arms behind his head, trying to banish any thoughts of Alastair from his mind. For now, he feels safe thinking about Castiel, and he focuses on that endearing smile Cas gave him in math class a couple days ago, because it makes him feel better.

                He's not really sure why he immediately jumped in to defend Cas when his friends were beating him up in the hallway. He'd just acted on impulse, and honestly he was a little embarrassed afterwards. But it felt sort of good. He feels like every little tiny thing he does to help Castiel is one step closer to Dean making up for what he did to Castiel in the woods. He hopes at least he's redeeming himself a little bit. He never expects to be forgiven for what he did, but at least he can do whatever he can to make it right.

                He remembers the winter play tonight and turns his head towards Sammy. "Hey, just so you know, we're going to the play tonight at my school."

                Sam raises _both_  eyebrows this time and looks at Dean skeptically. "Are you serious?" he asks.

                Dean crinkles his forehead. "Yeah, why?"

                Sam snorts. "Dude, you've never been to a play in your _life._ Why now?"

                Dean purses his lips and shrugs, the shrug made awkward by the fact that he's laying down. "I don't know, I just feel like it. And you're coming. If I have to sit through it, then so do you."

                Sam rolls his eyes. "I like plays, so it's not like it's that hard for me to go. But you're probably gonna be bored out of your mind."

                Dean chews on his lip. "Whatever," he says, looking back at the ceiling. Truth is, he doesn't like plays. But he knows he's not going to be bored, because Castiel will be there. And anywhere where Castiel is, is _never_ boring. Cas is so nice to look at. And Dean has been there for some of the play's rehearsals, and found them entertaining as hell, mostly because the theatre kids just laughed the whole time.

                Dean sighs and pushes himself up from Sam's bed. "I'm gonna go shower before we go. The play's at seven but we should probably get there early if we wanna get good seats."

                Sam makes a humming noise in acknowledgement, and Dean ruffles his hair on the way out of his bedroom, just because he knows Sam hates it. Sam absentmindedly smoothes his shaggy hair back down and continues on his homework. Jesus, he has a lot of homework for a seventh grader, but Sam is in mostly advanced classes. One of his classes is even a high school class. It makes Dean so proud, but he feels bad for Sam's brain sometimes.

                He wanders down the hall to the bathroom, glancing at John's door on the way. His door is open, and John isn't in there. Good. Dean doesn't feel like dealing with his father right now.

                He closes the door to the bathroom and locks it just in case, and then strips down. He hesitates before getting into the shower, holding out his arm and peeling the Band-Aids off his burns that he's been keeping on there. Swallowing hard, he turns the shower on and slips inside.

                He smells like smoke and school and sweat and it's gross, so he scrubs himself down with Sam's frou-frou lemon lime body wash until his skin sparkles. He carefully avoids his forearm with the burns on it. He's added a few more the past couple of weeks since he first burned himself, and he can't help but look down at them and study them in the shower.

                The first two he gave himself are healing surprisingly slowly. The blisters had eventually popped and peeled off, leaving a nauseating hole in his arm that oozes constantly and is vulnerably open. It's kind of counterproductive to put a Band-Aid over them, because they ooze too much and they don't scab over. They just turn into a mushy mess that's, frankly, disgusting. Dean tries to leave them open to the fresh air as much as possible, leaving the Band-Aids off when he sleeps. But at school, he has to put bandages on over them so his long sleeves don't rub on them.

                He's given himself three more burns since the first two, and they're just beginning to lose the blisters too. He wonders how long it's going to take the burns to heal. They're actually kind of a bitch. They're taking so long to scab over, and he constantly has to hide them, because it's kind of obvious what they are.

                And the more he burns himself, the stronger the urge becomes to _keep_ burning himself. The more burns he gives himself, the more he wants to do it. The urge has just been getting stronger and stronger over the past couple weeks.

                That should be a little concerning to Dean, but he doesn't worry about it too much. It makes him feel better, and he's grown to absolutely _love_ that addictive rush of endorphins that floods his body after every time he burns himself. It makes him forget about everything, even Castiel. When he hurts himself, it's like nothing else matters. It's almost like a reminder that things can't get much worse than they already are, so why worry?

                He's sick. He needs mental help. But he's not going to acknowledge that right yet. He's just going to enjoy it.

                And wear long sleeves.

                He sighs and finishes up in the shower, climbing out and drying himself off. He sticks more bandages over the burns, little Band-Aids with various space-themed prints on them that Sam insisted they buy. They make him smile, but he feels a little sick for smiling, and a little heavy in his gut, because he's using Sam's Band-Aids to cover the evidence of Dean's mental problems. And that's kind of fucked up, right?

                He wraps a towel around his waist and gathers his dirty clothes, slipping down the hall to his room and pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a long-sleeved green Henley. Ruffling up his wet hair a bit so that it dries the way he likes it, he wanders down the hall to the kitchen and throws together a couple grilled chicken breasts for his and Sam's dinner. He sprinkles a little season salt on them and carries them back to Sam's room, plunking one down in front of Sam on his desk.

                Sam has a fork, but he decides to just pick up the chicken breast and eat it with his fingers like a chicken tender. Dean rolls his eyes and spears the whole breast with his fork, eating it like a corn dog instead. Sam grins at him around a bite and chews with his mouth open, smacking his lips as obscenely as possible.

                They end up sitting there having a contest to see who can chew their food the loudest and as obnoxiously as possible, laughing a little and spitting at each other.

                When six-o-clock rolls around, they throw on their jackets and head out to walk through the woods to the high school. Dean feels a little antsy as they walk, because he half expects to see Alastair sitting at The Docks still. But he's not there when Dean and Sam pass by, to Dean's relief.

                He buys Sam a ticket at the door, and shows his student ID so he can get in for free, and then lets Sam pick whichever seats he wants to sit in. Dean gets a little nervous when Sam ends up choosing the very first row, because he wants to get the best view of the play possible. What if Castiel happens to glance up at one point during the play and spots Dean sitting there? Is that embarrassing? Should Dean be embarrassed that he's here? Is it creepy?

                He's not sure, but he lets it go because he doesn't want Sam to see how nervous he is.

                The auditorium slowly fills up, and the whole crowd speaks in a dull roar. Dean flips through his program, reading about the various acts in the play, and the credits to the crew of the theatre club. He specifically searches for Castiel's name under the cast, and when he finds it, he gets a little thrill in his stomach, which is probably stupid and girly, but whatever.

                When the play starts, Cas isn't in the first two acts, and Dean sits there mildly interested in the plot. But mostly, he's bored, just like Sam said he would be. Dean doesn't like theatre - it's kind of a well known fact. He does she Jo up there on stage though, and smiles a little. She's playing some frilly valley girl, which is so unlike her.

                When the third acts starts up, and the lights turn towards the stage, Castiel is suddenly standing _right there_ , and Dean sits up a little straighter. Cas is dressed in a leather jacket and ripped jeans, and he's got this uncharacteristic glare on his face. Dean remembers seeing somewhere that Castiel plays "Dirk" the school bully in this play, and he almost laughs because Cas is pretty much dressed exactly like Dean dresses every day.

                And frankly, that leather jacket on Castiel is _hot_. Dean adjusts himself and tries to think of something else before he pops a boner in the middle of the play. That would be fucking humiliating.

The bruises Castiel received a couple days ago when Dean's friends beat him up at his locker are gone from his face, and Dean assumes that the costume people must have covered them with makeup. But they did a good job, and Cas doesn't even look like he has anything on his face. Just that smooth, pale skin that Dean has come to love.

                And when Castiel starts to say his lines, in that deep gravelly voice that sounds angry right now because he's acting, Dean actually _does_ get half-hard in his pants. He takes off his jacket, even though it's relatively cold in the theatre, and holds it in his lap so Sam doesn't happen to glance over and see Dean's stiffy through his jeans. That's the last thing Dean needs.

                As the play goes on, Dean really can't concentrate on what exactly it's about. He just stares at Castiel acting as the bully. He does surprisingly well, and Dean imagines that it's because Cas has had his fair share of experiences with bullies, Dean included. It makes him feel guilty, but he tries to swallow that down, just focusing on how hot Cas looks in that leather jacket.

                Sometime during the eighth act, Castiel raises his eyes and happens to glance towards the audience, and Dean freezes when Castiel looks _right_ at him. He's not sure if Cas can actually see him with the lights pointing directly into his eyes, but the way Castiel stutters just a tiny bit and freezes up in the middle of his lines answers that question pretty clearly.

                He holds Dean's stare for a few long seconds, and then tears his eyes away, getting himself back into character. The whole interaction is subtle, but Sam notices, and it seems to be the first time he realizes who is on stage.

                He nudges Dean and leans in to whisper in his ear. "Hey, isn't that Castiel?"

                Dean shoots him a glare, but blushes a bit, and his embarrassment is a little obvious on his face. Sam snorts. "Now I know why you wanted to go to the play, you sap."

                Dean shoves his head away, shushing him, and Sam snickers to himself, turning his eyes back to the play.

                All through the last hour of the play, Castiel glances up at Dean several more times between his lines, and Dean presses his lips together to keep from smiling, his stomach flip-flopping with butterflies, because he can see the faint blush on Castiel's cheeks, even from here. He's suddenly so very grateful to Sam for choosing to sit in the front row.

                When the play ends, the audience gives a standing ovation, and when the whole cast comes out onto stage and holds hands for a bow, Dean locks eyes with Castiel once more, and Cas actually _smiles_ at him again. It's just like the smile in math class a couple days ago. It's tiny, and endearing, and Castiel's eyes sparkle with how genuine it is.

                Dean is again frozen in place when Cas smiles at him, and he doesn't have a chance to snap out of it and smile back before Castiel turns and walks off the stage with the rest of the actors and actresses. Sam snorts as they're walking out of the theatre.

                "Well now that you're done having eye-sex with him, I think it's time you go home and take another shower. What do you say?" Sam teases, and dodges Dean's hand when he goes to whap Sam on the back of the head. He's embarrassed, but he laughs with his little brother, and slings an arm around his shoulders as they walk out of the crowded theatre and towards the woods.

                It's almost ten when they finally make it home, and Dean just automatically heads to Sam's room again to hang out. He loves hanging out with his brother. Sam is a dork, and way too smart for Dean to hold an intelligent conversation with, but he's still fun to hang out with. They talk about movies, and girls and boys, and Sam tells Dean all about Jess and what he plans to do with her on their date next week.

                Dean rolls his eyes and changes that whole plan, giving Sam expert advice on where to take Jess and what to do with her and all that shit that girls like. They're both only twelve, so it's not like they're going out to a bar or anything, but they're going to ride their bikes into town and see a movie. It's a good first date for Sam.

                They talk for an hour or so in Sam's room before they hear a crash down the hall as the front door swings open and hits the wall. There are actually holes in the wall of the front hallway from the doorknob because John is constantly crashing into the house in a drunken stupor and slamming around.

                "Dean! Sam! Where are ya!" they hear John shout, and he sounds angry. The brothers exchange a glance, and who _knows_ what John is angry about this time, but Dean doesn't feel like dealing with his shit tonight.

                He gets up quietly from the bed and goes over to Sam's bedroom door, closing and locking it and switching off the light. When he turns around, Sam is already opening the window, and Dean climbs out first before turning and lifting Sam off the sill. They jog down the street until they're out of sight of their house, and then slow to a walk. They'll go to Bobby's again tonight. Maybe Dean will get a chance to congratulate Jo on a job well done in the play, even though he honestly didn't pay attention to much besides Castiel.

                Despite the fact that's it's friggin' frigid outside, they still stop when they pass by Hautley's Bend, and Dean pushes Sam on the swings for ten minutes or so since they haven't been to the park in a while.

                When they finally make it to the Singer's, Ellen ushers them inside out of the cold and whips them both up some homemade hot chocolate. Dean sees Ellen sweep her eyes up and down both their bodies, reflexively checking for injuries, and when she's satisfied that neither of them have taken a beating tonight, she sits them down at the kitchen table with Jo and Bobby, and the five of them just talk and laugh for the rest of the night.

                It's almost one in the morning when they finally head to bed, and Sam and Dean share the bed in the guest room. Dean lays on his side and stares at the taxidermy stag head hanging over the door. It stares back at him, and it sort of reminds him of the deer he saw in the woods when he found Castiel laying out there. It creeps him out, so he turns over and faces Sam, who has already fallen asleep and is snoring softly with his face smashed into the pillow.

                Dean is tempted to reach out and flick his nose, but he restrains himself. He shifts his arm and feels the pull and sting of the burns there. And suddenly, despite the fact that he's really not in a bad mood right now, and he's not having a panic attack or thinking about Alastair and Ghost Town, Dean wants to burn himself again. It's a strange urge he feels, and it actually scares him a little.

                What if, when the time comes, Dean is unable to stop burning himself? What if, when his problems are all gone and he gets the fuck over Alastair's attack, he doesn't _want_ to stop hurting himself? Is his arm going to end up looking like Swiss cheese with how many burns he has? Will he start to burn himself on his thighs so the scars are easier to hide? He grimaces as he thinks about trying to wear jeans over a healing, oozing burn. That would be downright uncomfortable. 

                He suddenly feels a little guilty about what he's doing. What if Sam finds out? How would he react to the idea that Dean has been mutilating himself? Would he be angry? Would he be sad? Would he have Dean checked into a psych ward? Any number of things could happen.

                Dean _really_ doesn't want to go to a psych ward.

                And he has to protect his brother. He can't do that from the inside of a padded room. And he will _not_ let Sam find out about the burns.

                He reaches out across the bed and wraps his hand around Sam's wrist, because it's comforting, and Dean closes his eyes. Maybe he'll be okay. Maybe everything will be okay. He just has to keep telling himself that, no matter how much of a lie it is. 


	14. Consumed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've produced another freakishly long chapter here, but from what I've heard in the comments, the general consensus is that most of you guys don't mind (or actually prefer) longer chapters as opposed to short ones, so I'll stop worrying about it so much hahaha I hope you enjoy :) And as always, sorry for typos.

Castiel is actually stupefied when both his mother and his father show up just in time for Christmas. And they actually stay the _night_ , which is equally as baffling. Bartholomew, Naomi, Anna, and Castiel have a quiet and expectedly awkward dinner on Christmas Eve, where Anna does most of the talking. But even she trails off after a while, and the family is left in silence, with nothing but forks scraping against plates and nauseating chewing noises filling the quiet room.

                Castiel's family never really has much to talk about when all four of them are together. Bartholomew is a salesman, so what is there really to tell? Naomi could have some pretty interesting stories about her anthropology work in Central America, but she doesn't really talk about it, and Cas doesn't ask.

                And on the flipside, Castiel doesn't have much to talk about in the way of school. What is he supposed to say to his parents? Is he supposed to tell them about how he gets beat up all the time? Or how he's helplessly fallen for one of his bullies? The same bully, in fact, who was involved in leaving him half-dead out in the woods for an entire night?

                Really though...what is he supposed to say?

                He does mention theatre though. He tells of the winter play and how that went, and his mother and father hum a little and nod, and Bartholomew mentions how he never knew Castiel was interested in theatre. But frankly, Bartholomew doesn't know much of _anything_ about his children, so it doesn't come as a surprise that he doesn't know this about Cas.

                On Christmas morning the next day, all four of them have stockings propped up against the fireplace in the living room with their names stitched into the tops. Castiel receives some odd gifts from "Santa", including a razor kit from a duty free store, a _Made In China_ Costa Rican flag, a package of thorlo running socks, and a mesh bag of chocolate coins. He accepts the gifts with a smile though because, hey, _gifts_. Free stuff. Who doesn't like free stuff, even if it's strange free stuff?

                They only have a few bigger presents stacked on the other side of the living room to open later in the day after a Christmas morning breakfast. No one in the family really took the time to go out and buy a tree for Christmas day, so they take the coat stand that they never use out of the front hallway and place it in the center of the living room, so they have something to arrange the presents around. Anna insists on running to the basement really quick and grabbing a string of rainbow Christmas lights to wrap around the metal arms of the coat rack, so it further resembles a tree. It doesn't really work, but Castiel humors her anyway, even if half the lights on the strand are burned out.

                They sit and open presents that are just as strange as the ones in the stockings, and then they sort of split off and spend the rest of Christmas Day hanging out in their rooms. Naomi and Bartholomew make a team effort of cooking a decent Christmas dinner, with Naomi complaining that there are too many casseroles in the fridge to fit anything else in there. Castiel smiles secretly to himself. The casseroles probably taste better than anything his parents are cooking anyway.

                His mother is acting strange. She's generally a pretty subdued person, but she's acting even more reclusive than usual. She doesn't talk much, and she keeps giving Bartholomew strange looks, like she wants to say something, but then backs out at the last second. Castiel wonders if his mother's personality has changed a bit since she's been in Central America. She hasn't been gone _that_ long, but still. People change, and Naomi isn't like he remembers.

                Castiel has Kevin over briefly in the middle of the afternoon to see if he can fix the heater again. He struggles for about an hour in the back hallway, but eventually the walls make that car crash sound and the heater kicks back on. Castiel grins and thanks Kevin, and secretly slips him the mesh bag of chocolate coins that he got in his stocking to show his gratitude.

                When the Novak's sit down for Christmas dinner, the heater sputtering and pumping hot air into the kitchen, horrible Christmas music playing softly from the TV, Naomi has them all say a prayer before they eat. Castiel didn't even know his mother was religious. They've never prayed around the dinner table before, and they've only been to church a couple times in Cas's life. Castiel isn't religious, and he has no reason to be. Where does God come into the picture? He doesn't see God helping him out very much in the grand scheme of things. He tried to find God once, find some faith, but that was a bust.

                Maybe if God existed, he'd snap his fingers and fix the damn heater in their house.

                Castiel stifles a laugh as Naomi recites the prayer, and he and Anna exchange a sneaky glance , smiling at each other before they all say "amen" and start to eat. It's another quiet, awkward meal, as tradition calls. Bartholomew asks Castiel and Anna what their favorite gift was today, and just to be a little shit, Castiel claims it was the thorlo running socks that really tickled his fancy. Anna laughs, and Cas kicks her under the table.

                They finish the dinner with some sporadic, mindless chatter here and there, and Cas watches Anna inconspicuously push her green beans to the side and bury them in mashed potatoes so she doesn't have to eat them. Naomi bought a premade apple cobbler that she pops in the oven for dessert, and when they all sit down to eat it after taking a brief break to allow their stomachs to settle from the large dinner, they don't get more than two bites in before Naomi suddenly sighs loudly and drops her fork.

                "I can't do it anymore," she says, and it's almost like the words are punched out of her, like she literally couldn't hold them in for another moment. Castiel, Anna, and Bartholomew all stop eating and look up at her in confusion.

                "What?" their father says.

                Naomi shakes her head, chuckling a little, but she sounds positively exasperated, and tired. "I just...I can't keep it in any longer," she says, throwing her hands up in the air like she's saying _oh well_ , "There's something I need to talk to you guys about."

                Castiel eyes her with a crinkled forehead, and Anna continued to ferry small bites of apple cobbler into her mouth as she stares at their mother. Bartholomew sets down his fork, and they all wait silently for Naomi to continue.

                She takes a moment, licking her lips and rubbing her forehead, and then looks up. She looks right at their father, unwaveringly, and her voice is firm and professional. "I'm having an affair," she says, and somehow she doesn't sound at all sorry. Everyone just stares at her for a few moments, and Castiel isn't sure if he heard her correctly.

                "Excuse me?" Bart says, and he leans forward a bit. Apparently he's having the same issue Castiel is. Neither of them are quite sure what they just heard.

                Naomi huffs an annoyed sigh. "I'm having an affair," she repeats, and then she pauses for a moment, pondering something to herself, and then continuing, "Actually...it's more than that, to be honest. I'm in love with him, and I would like a divorce."

                Bartholomew just blinks at her for a few moments, letting that sink in, his face a mixture of disbelief that slowly dissolves into anger. He stands up so fast and so suddenly that his chair scrapes across the tile floor and tips over, clattering loudly onto its side. Cas sees Anna jump next to him. _"What?"_ Bart says, and this time, he's shouting.

                Castiel's mind wanders back to the phone call he had with his mother a couple months ago. He remembers that voice he heard in the background of Naomi's call. _Cas was right_. His mother was having an affair all along. Castiel guessed right, from the very beginning. _Wow_.

                He's actually not that surprised, but he was sort of thinking it would all blow over. And here his mother is confessing it to the whole family.

                Just _wow_.

                Castiel's throat tightens up, and he has to gulp especially hard to swallow the half-chewed bite of cobbler in his mouth. Naomi holds up her hands in a placating way, but it's almost condescending. "Now, let's just stay calm about this," she says to Bart, "It's a simple request. We'll just get a divorce and be done with it. No huss, no fuss."

                Cas sneaks a glance at his father, and Bartholomew has gone pale, but there's a shade of deep, angry red crawling up his face slowly but surely as everything sinks in. And seeing his father angry puts a heavy rock in Cas's stomach, because Bart is usually a mild-mannered lump of a guy. He doesn't get angry, just really serious. And right now, he's losing control.

                "What the _fuck_ are you talking about Naomi?" he shouts, and Castiel's eyebrows actually shoot towards the ceiling. He thinks maybe that's the first time he's ever heard his father cuss in his life.

                Naomi’s face crunches in anger. Apparently she doesn’t appreciate the cussing either. “Watch your language, Bartholomew! That’s no way to talk in front of the kids!”

                “Stop changing the subject!” their father shouts, and then he shouts something else, but Castiel withdraws into his own head. He hates listening to people argue, and frankly, he gets anxiety from it. So he leans back in his chair, forcing himself not to listen to his mother and father suddenly shouting at each other over the dinner table.

                _Divorce_. Wow. Castiel didn’t even think a divorce between his parents was _possible_ , what with them being separated for the majority of the time anyway. He swallows, picking at his cobbler with the tip of his fork, not eating it because his mouth is suddenly pasty and dry, and he has a lump in his throat. He doesn’t know why he feels like he’s having a mild panic attack when, outwardly, he looks very calm…but then he looks over at Anna.

                Her eyes are wide, and her face is red, and she has a half-chewed bite of cobbler just sitting in her mouth unfinished. She looks like she’s in shock, and all at once Castiel understand why he’s suddenly feeling overwhelmed. This is going to uproot Anna’s life even more than it already is. It’s going to uproot _Castiel’s_ life too.

                Cas has had an illusion in his head for years now. He’s always thought – _hoped_ – that one day his parents would quit their jobs, and they would come home, and the four Novak’s would settle down somewhere in a permanent location, and they would live a normal life. But if his parents get divorced…that’s never going to happen.

                Basically, Castiel is sitting here right now, trying not to listen to an argument that is ultimately going to crush any hope left of Castiel and Anna ever having any sort of normality.

                And Castiel isn’t sure if he can quite fathom that right now.

                He stares at the wall across the room, zoning out of the argument, only picking up a few words here and there like “his name is…” and “slut” and “adulterous bitch” and “that’s uncalled for”.

                So this is it. This is the end of Castiel’s family. Funny how that works. One single argument can tear an entire structure apart. It’s weird.

                And Castiel feels every bit of it in the way his heart is suddenly slamming in his chest and his throat is constricting.

                He has no idea how long his mother and father just stand there shouting at each other, leaning over the table and forgetting about the fact that their children are sitting right there. When Bartholomew reaches down in a fit of rage and picks up his plate of apple cobbler, throwing it across the room and smashing the entire dish against the wall, the room falls silent instantly. Cas snaps out of his anxious daze and looks up.

                His parents are standing there silently, glaring at each other, breathing hard like the argument was a work out. Anna is sitting at her place with her mouth hanging open. Apple cobbler from Bart’s plate slowly begins to drip down the wall where it hit, pooling on the floor in a sweet, sticky puddle.

                In the dead, awkward silence, the heater kicks on again, that signature car crash sound reverberating through the quiet house, and the whir of the air coming out of the vent above the doorway fills in the sudden hush.

                Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Castiel can’t stay here. He can’t handle this. This is too much. He’s seeing carefully structured pieces of his life slowly falling away right now, like someone launching a nuke into a game of Tetris and shattering the symmetry of it all.

                Anna moves first, and she stands up quickly from her chair and runs out of the room. Castiel and his parents stand there and listen to her run up the stairs and slam her bedroom door, and then a few seconds later, loud music starts to play. That’s alright. That’s how Anna works out her problems. She drowns them in the latest horrible pop music from the radio.

                Castiel generally runs away from his problems and tries to pretend like they don’t exist.

                That sounds like a brilliant idea right now.

                He doesn’t look at either of his parents as he stands, and he’s feeling a little disoriented with the sudden overwhelming turn his life has taken in the past five minutes. He turns, and calmly leaves the house, walking out the front door into the icy stillness of Christmas night. The sky is heavy with swollen clouds that look like stacks of black eggs. It might snow later, but not yet. It’s dark out, but the streetlamps on the side of the road light the way, and as soon as Castiel steps out the front door, he takes off running.

                He doesn’t know really where he’s planning on going, or even what he’s doing. He just knows that he wants to get away from his house. He wants to pretend for a moment that the whole conversation at dinner didn’t just happen. That Naomi isn’t having an affair. That his parents aren’t getting a divorce. That Castiel’s sliver of hope towards a normal life hasn’t burned out. That there isn’t apple cobbler dripping down the wall of the kitchen that Castiel will more than likely have to clean up by himself later.

                He starts crying somewhere between where he’s headed and where he’s coming from, and he has to stop running or he’s going to trip and fall because he can’t see. Everything is dead quiet. That should help, but it doesn’t, and he’s on the verge of panicking. This is so stupid. Why the hell is he crying?

                He feels faint - he's breathing too hard. He needs to calm down. The icy cold air burns as it slides down his throat into his heaving lungs, and his tears are freezing on his cheeks in shining tracks of frost. He realizes belatedly that he doesn't even have his jacket, and wraps his pale arms around himself as if that will keep in the warmth.

                He looks up after a while of just walking aimlessly, and somehow he's ended up at Hautley's Bend, and that just makes everything worse, because this is where he and Dean first met - or, at least, crossed paths. And he could really do without thinking about Dean Winchester right now while he's dealing with his angry father and adulterous mother. And, oh God, he left Anna alone with them.

                Great, a little bit of guilt at his selfishness to stack on top of the growing pile of shit his life is becoming.

                He knows he's being a little melodramatic. Parents get divorced all the time, and the world goes on.

                But these are _his_ parents, and this is _his_ life coming apart at the seams. And even if his parents are really never around, it still _hurts_.

                He drops down on his ass on the cold sidewalk next to the swing set, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his forehead on them, fisting his hands in his hair to warm his fingers in the thick locks of brown. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend that this isn't how his Christmas is going, that he's around some huge dinner table drinking egg nog instead and passing a honey ham from person to happy person like something straight out of Whoville.

                Instead he's sitting at Hautley's Bend, crying pathetically.

                He sits there for God-knows how long.

                And then, there's someone approaching him from behind.

                He hears the footsteps and hopes that it's just some night owl taking a PM jog. Instead, the footsteps are coming towards him and slowing down the closer they get. He smells cigarette smoke next, and his heart leaps with butterflies at the same time as his stomach sinks with dread.

                He knows it's Dean even before he lifts his eyes, sniffing loudly as he glances behind himself and sees Dean fucking Winchester standing a few feet away in his big leather jacket, cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger. Castiel just stares at him for a long moment, his tears silent and annoying, rolling in fat blobs down his cheeks.

                Dean doesn't have that look in his eyes that he gets when he's with his friends, the look that says that Cas should book ass in the other direction and hope he runs faster than them. No, this time Dean has a confused sort of puppy look to him, and it makes Castiel tear his eyes away, because he'd rather just pretend he's invisible. He doesn’t need to deal with the way Dean’s been looking at him for the past several weeks right now. It’s messing with his head.

                He faces forward again and ignores the smell of the cigarette, staring at the swings hanging stiff and unmoving in the frozen air. Dean's boots crunch a bit on the gravelly asphalt.

                "You know, if you keep going outside without a jacket, you're gonna get pneumonia," Dean says matter-of-factly, his voice low and rough and a little too loud in the dead silence of the park.

                Cas grits his teeth and says nothing. He doesn't really want to think about the last time he'd been outside without a jacket and encountered Dean. He'd rather not wake up tomorrow morning in a bathtub.

                When he doesn't reply, Dean shuffles a little, and then his footsteps are coming forward again. Castiel hears rustling behind himself at the same time as Dean's cigarette drops onto the asphalt next to Castiel's hip. Cas glances at it out of the corner of his eye as Dean's boot stomps the glowing tip out, and then flinches perhaps too violently as Dean drapes something warm and heavy over Castiel's shoulders. His leather jacket.

                Cas's forehead creases in confusion and he looks back at Dean, finding him in just a black long-sleeved Henley and worn jeans. Dean plops down next to Cas on the sidewalk, bending his knees and resting his elbows on them, breath a cloud in front of his face as he sighs and looks over at Castiel. They're entirely too close at the moment, but Castiel restrains the urge to scoot away, or to lean in.

                "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice raspy and cracking embarrassingly with tears.

                Dean shrugs nonchalantly. "Had to get out of the house, figured I'd come here." Castiel knows that Dean comes to Hautley's Bend almost daily, so it isn't exactly weird to find him here. Subconsciously, maybe Cas knew that, and came here tonight out of instinct. And that's all kinds of fucked up.

                "No, I mean what are you _doing_?" he demands, staring at Dean even as Dean breaks the gaze and scans his green eyes across the empty park. Cas shifts a little, and even though the warmth of the leather jacket feels heavenly on his cold goose-bumped skin, he begins to pull it off to give it back to Dean.

                They aren't friends - this isn't something a bully and his victim do. They don't hang out - they don't take each other's jackets. They don't help each other. No matter how much Castiel likes Dean.

                "Hey, whoa, whoa, keep that on," Dean says, reaching over and pulling the half-shed jacket back onto Castiel's shoulders, "Seriously, you're gonna turn into an icicle." Cas flinches just a little when Dean's hands come near him, and then wishes he wasn't such a fucking wimp. Dean seems to notice and grimaces a little, pulling his hands away the second he is sure Cas isn't going to try to take the jacket off again.

                Castiel lowers his eyes and stares at his torn up shoes, and even though Dean Winchester is right next to him, so close their shoulders are brushing together, and even though they're alone together in the middle of the dark, and they don’t really know each other, it doesn't feel particularly awkward. They sit in silence for several minutes, and in those several minutes, Castiel's mind wanders back to the reason he's out here.

                All at once he's crying again, but it's so silent that Dean doesn't even notice until Castiel sniffs a little, surreptitiously reaching up to wipe a couple tears away from his cold face. Dean glances over.

                "Are you okay?" he asks, his voice a little quieter than before, like Cas is some scared animal. It's the second time Dean's asked him that in the past week. Why is Dean being so nice?

                He shakes his head, sniffing again and resting his chin on his knees, biting his bottom lip in an attempt to stop crying. God he's so pathetic.

                "What happened?" Dean implores.

                Castiel's eyebrows press together, and he looks over at Dean. "Why do you care?" he asks, ignoring how stupidly weak his voice sounds muddled with tears.

                Dean stares at him with pursed lips, like he doesn't know the answer to that. He glances away for a few seconds, and then shrugs a little. "I guess I figured people shouldn't be crying on Christmas," he replies, "It's weird."

                Cas huffs a little snort. "Well thank you for reminding me that I'm so weird," he replies, trying to swallow back more tears, scrubbing his face.               

                "Come on dude, that's not what I meant," Dean reasons, scratching the back of his neck.

                Castiel shakes his head before Dean can go on, silently asking for him to drop the subject. Dean seems uniquely good at taking hints, so he doesn’t say anything more. They sit in complete silence for a while, but it’s so comfortable that Castiel almost forgets that he and Dean haven’t really been alone that much together.

                But isn’t this a _good_ sign? That their silence is comfortable and not at all awkward? Isn’t that a sign that they should be friends? Castiel tries not to think about that, but he can’t help it. Dean is sitting right next to him, the heat of his body _right there_ , and it’s almost irresistible.

                Dean moves suddenly, and Castiel glances over as Dean reaches down and fishes in the pocket of his leather jacket that’s draped over Cas’s shoulders. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and places one cigarette between his lips, lighting it up skillfully before tucking the two items back into the leather jacket. Castiel stares at him the whole time he does this, watching the way Dean’s full lips wrap around the filter like the cigarette belongs there.

                It’s unbelievably hot, even though smoking honestly shouldn’t be that hot.

                Dean seems to notice that Cas is staring at him, and he looks over, taking a drag on the smoke and blowing it out of his nose like a dragon so he doesn’t blow it right into Castiel’s face.

                And then, he smiles.

                Castiel just blinks at Dean as Dean smiles at him. It’s small, barely there, but it softens his whole face, and it makes Castiel freeze up. This is the first time Dean’s smiled at him. Cara assigned Cas to smile at Dean, and Castiel _has_ a couple times, but Dean has never smiled back.

                The smile doesn’t last very long, but it makes everything in Castiel’s body melt. And then Dean places the cigarette back in his mouth and looks away, taking another drag. The tip of the cigarette crackles almost inaudibly in the silence surrounding them, and Dean kind of stares at the glowing red embers for a moment with a strange look in his eyes.

                Castiel just stares at Dean, for as long as he can before he feels like he’s being creepy. Then he forces himself to look away and looks at the forest behind Hautley’s Bend instead, half expecting to see Elsa Hautley’s ghost just hanging out there in one of the trees, because that’s _just_ the kind of weird night Castiel is having.

                “You ever heard the stories?” Dean asks suddenly, and Castiel uses him speaking as an excuse to look at him again.

                “What?” he asks. Dean is looking out into the trees as well.

                “All those stories about Hautley,” Dean says, “Like the whole suicide thing?”

                Castiel sniffs, nodding. “My friends told me,” he replies, and he realizes that he’s not crying anymore. His voice is still scratchy, but there are no more tears falling from his eyes, to his relief.

                “Pretty crazy, huh?” Dean says, with another little smile, “It’s like there’s this whole back story that’s just lost in time here.”

                Castiel wipes the remaining tears off his face, flexing his hands in the cold. “What do you mean?”

                Dean looks over at him again, and Cas has a hard time concentrating on what Dean’s saying when those green eyes are right there and those lips are _so close_. _God dammit_.

                “Try going anywhere else in the world, even Johnson or Stowe like 45 minutes away from here, and _no one_ will know what you’re talking about if you bring up Hautley,” Dean says, as if it’s just the craziest thing, “This whole tragic love story thing has just been lost in time.”

                Castiel just looks at Dean for a second as Dean takes another drag on his cigarette, his big green eyes staring off towards the forest. His eyes look almost maroon in the darkness.

                “I guess it just goes to show how stuck we are here,” Dean continues when Cas doesn’t say anything, “You know? Like if a story that tragic gets lost in time here, imagine how stuck we are in Rail Pass. It’s like time just stops here.”

                Castiel feels a tingle in his chest, because Dean is just up and talking to him like they’ve been friends forever. And what he’s saying is profound and inquisitive, and frankly, adorable. And Castiel wants to kiss him. _God_ , he wants to kiss him. Dean is sitting right next to him. All it would take for Cas to kiss him would be just leaning a few inches to the side and capturing those lips in his.

                But he can’t. Who knows how badly Dean would react.

                And then Castiel remembers why he’s here, and his whole stomach drops again, and he wants to sit here and just be depressed and cry. And suddenly, it almost feels safe here with Dean. So he just says it.

                “My parents are getting a divorce.”

                Dean sucks in another drag of his cigarette as he pulls his eyes away from the woods to look at Castiel once more. He cocks his head to the side a little, blowing the smoke out from between his pale pink lips. “Sorry,” he says, and it actually sounds surprisingly genuine, “That sucks.”

                Castiel doesn’t usually talk about his problems to people. Ever. But something about Dean being here feels so safe, and Cas shouldn’t feel that way because Dean is a dangerous guy. But he can’t help it. It’s like a magnetic pull Castiel feels, to just melt into Dean’s presence and bask in it, to feel like nothing else matters in the world.

                And before he knows it, he just keeps talking.

                “My mom had an affair,” he says, “And she just… _told_ us at dinner like it was nothing.”

                Dean pops an eyebrow. “Kind of a shitty thing to do on Christmas.”

                Castiel swallows and nods, looking back down at the toes of his shoes, hugging Dean’s jacket tighter around himself. “My dad threw a plate at the wall,” Cas says, because he can’t think of anything else to say about it.

                Dean surprises him by laughing, and Castiel looks back up at him. “What’s so funny?”

                Dean lowers his eyes and shakes his head, chuckling a little. “Nothing, nothing,” he says, waving it off and taking another quick drag on his smoke, “It’s just…breaking dishes. I don’t know, it’s funny.”

                Castiel has no idea why that’s funny, but seeing Dean laugh, seeing the tiny crinkles that form at the edges of his eyes, is so fucking endearing that Castiel can’t even find it in himself to mind that Dean’s laughing about something dumb.

                It makes Cas feel a little better, to see Dean chuckling quietly to himself as he takes one last drag in his cigarette, and then stubs it out on the ground, flicking the filter away. But Castiel still feels really low, and he can’t make it stop. He’s trying to think of something else, but that nagging thought is still at the back of his mind, reminding him again and again that his family is going to split apart. His parents are both stubborn, so the divorce won’t be easy. It will be full of arguments and custody battles and fighting over who gets to keep that stupid coat rack.

                Castiel zones out staring at Dean’s profile, and memorizing every detail of his face, because this is the closest he’s ever been to Dean before, and all Cas wants to do is forget about the divorce for a second. He notices a little scar on Dean’s cheek, and there’s some faint bruising around his eye that looks a few weeks old. He has day-old stubble, and there’s a _tiny_ bump in his nose that might indicate that he broke it once. His lips aren’t chapped at all, despite the cold, but that might have something to do with the fact that Dean’s pink tongue pops out every few minutes to lick them, leaving them shiny with spit.

                They sit there for another several minutes in just complete silence, and eventually Dean turns his head so he’s looking back at Castiel. Dean probably knew that Castiel has been looking at him for a while, but Cas figures he’s entitled to stare for a bit, since Dean has been staring at him non-stop for weeks now in school.

                And as they look at each other, so close that their breaths are mingling in cloudy puffs in the air, Castiel gets that urge again. That magnetic pull that he constantly has to ignore at school, to just grab Dean and kiss him. He daydreams about it constantly, and he’s actually not quite sure whether he’s dreaming right _now_ , because Dean is so close, and this is so unreal.

                Only this time, the urge to kiss him is unbearably strong. They’re out here alone, in the dark, faces inches away from each other, and Castiel is too emotionally drained to fight it. Especially when he sees Dean’s eye flicker to his lips too.

                Castiel doesn’t think. For a moment, he lets himself let go of all his doubts.

                He leans in.

                And just like that, he’s kissing Dean Winchester.

                Dean’s mouth is warm, and his lips are even _softer_ than they were in Castiel’s dream. For a couple seconds, Castiel forgets how to breathe, forgets how to think, forgets how to do anything, and he just _feels_. Dean goes rigid against him, and while the kiss feels like it lasts for hours, it probably only lasts for two or three seconds before Castiel’s brain function snaps back into control.

                He jerks away from Dean as suddenly as he leaned in, gasping and blushing furiously red, staring wide-eyed at Dean as Dean stares awestruck back at Castiel.

                _Holy fuck_ , what did he just do?

                He just kissed Dean. He just _kissed_ Dean.

                _Oh God_ , this was a bad idea. How could Cas be so _stupid_?

                “Shit…Dean, Christ, I’m sorry! I’m so sor-“ Castiel stammers, beginning to apologize, but he doesn’t get to finish.

                Dean cuts him off mid-apology by surging forward and crushing their lips together again. Castiel makes a muffled noise of surprise, and he would have fallen backwards, had Dean’s hands not come up and grabbed onto the lapels of his leather jacket still draped around Castiel’s shoulders to keep him in place.

                This time, _Cas_ freezes in place, his mind reeling, trying to catch up to the present. He watches Dean’s eyes fall closed, and he feels Dean’s soft lips kissing him hungrily, almost desperately.

                It takes one of Dean’s hands coming up and resting on the side of his neck, a thumb tracing his jaw, for Castiel to just _melt_ , and his eyes fall closed. And just like that, he’s kissing Dean back.

                Dean pulls in a sharp breath through his nose as Castiel starts kissing him back, and he presses into the kiss more. It’s all actually a bit sloppy, and it’s a little awkward at this angle, but Castiel doesn’t care. His heart is actually _hurting_ his ribs it’s beating so fast, and he suddenly has the urge to know whether or not Dean’s is doing the same thing.

                Castiel snakes one hand out, and presses it right over Dean’s heart. His chest is firm, and he’s so unbelievably _warm_ despite the fact that Cas is wearing his jacket. And Dean’s heart is slamming in his chest, the rhythm of it almost identical to Castiel’s. Does that mean Dean is as nervous as Castiel? Does this mean he’s just as shocked?

                Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself not to think, because if he starts thinking, he’s going to freak out and remember all the reasons why he _shouldn’t_ be kissing Dean right now. So he lets his mind go blank, and he just allows himself to feel it, to enjoy it while it lasts because this may be the only time this ever happens.

                Cas stiffens as Dean’s tongue traces along his bottom lip, and it’s almost second-nature that Castiel opens his mouth, allowing Dean’s tongue to slide inside. It’s weird at first, because Castiel has never kissed someone with tongue before. It’s a lot smoother than he imagined it would be, like licking a piece of fruit, and Castiel’s mouth automatically makes space for it as Dean probes inside.

                Cas doesn’t really know what to do, because he doesn’t have any experience with this, so he just does what he thinks is right. As Dean is withdrawing his tongue, Castiel follows the movement through and licks his way into Dean’s mouth. The way Dean groans a little is indication enough that Castiel did something right, and this time _he’s_ the one pressing into the kiss, his free hand coming up and threading into Dean’s soft hair like he’s wanted to do since he first saw him.

                The kiss is, for the most part, nothing like Castiel’s wet dream. It’s _better_. Not because the technique is necessarily perfect, nor is the rhythm right on point. It’s a little fumbled and messy to be honest. But it’s everything Castiel could have hoped for. Everything, from the way Dean’s hand slides to the back of Castiel’s neck to hold his face to his, to the way their tongues curl around each other, to the way Dean’s stubble scrapes against Castiel’s chin, to the way Dean’s lips feel like opening a window and squinting into the warm sun.

                Dean tastes like cigarettes, but that’s not all, and Castiel actually doesn’t mind the musky flavor of menthol and tobacco. Because Dean also tastes spectacular underneath that, a flavor that belongs distinctly to _Dean_ alone. It’s earthy and ancient and masculine, like black coffee and rain storms. It’s the most addicting thing Castiel has ever tasted, and he chases that flavor with his tongue as they press closer together.

                Castiel has no idea how long the kiss lasts. His mind is so lost in it, like he’s floating away, like he’s simultaneously dying and being reborn. He never knew a kiss could _be_ like this, mostly because the only other kisses he’s ever had were in kindergarten and middle school, hiding in the tunnel on the playground and sneaking a peck in really quickly before the teachers noticed.

                It’s only when Dean’s hand on the lapel of the leather jacket moves down and slides along Castiel’s side to his lower back that Cas breaks off the kiss, as suddenly as it began. He’s breathing hard, and so is Dean, and they’re only a half a centimeter apart, because both of them are still holding onto the back of the other’s head. Castiel doesn’t want to destroy the moment – he _really_ doesn’t – but he forces himself to. He opens his eyes, and Dean is already there looking at him, his hand still lingering on Castiel’s back.

                For several long seconds, they just stare at each other, their lips still so close that they’re actually brushing together a little bit.

                And then the thing that Castiel feared would happen, happens. His brain catches up to him, and it’s like opening a floodgate. Suddenly, every single reason why he shouldn’t be kissing Dean right now, why this should be _wrong_ , consumes Cas’s head all at once. He remembers the feeling of Dean’s hands on his chest as he shoved him into the mud his first week here. He remembers the cocky, horrible smile Dean gave him that first day of school when the Cancers approached him in the hallway. He remembers the forest, and how _angry_ Dean looked, animalistic, in-human.

                And he’s suddenly pulling away. He removes his hands from Dean’s chest and the back of his head, and when he slides away, Dean lets him, although his hands linger on Castiel for as long as possible, which is weird. _Does Dean like him too?_ Why would Dean kiss him back otherwise? Was it just a spur of the moment reaction? Is Dean just trying to get laid? Is he just using him? Castiel didn’t even know Dean was _gay_ for Christ’s sake.

                Cas shuffles backwards and stands shakily, and just stares down at Dean for a second. Then he reaches up and pulls Dean’s warm, heavy leather jacket off his shoulders and holds it out to Dean.

                “I have to go,” Cas says, and he’s proud that he keeps his voice relatively even. Although he’s breathing hard and shaking a little, which probably gives away his nerves anyway.

                Dean stands as he takes his jacket back, and he just holds it in his hand. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s just frozen in place. Castiel turns and starts walking away quickly before he does something stupid like kiss Dean again.

                “Cas, wait,” Dean calls out, and Castiel stops walking, hesitating before looking back.

                Dean actually kind of looks like a lost puppy right now, and it’s the most vulnerable-looking Castiel has ever seen him. He looks like he wants to say something else, but Castiel is afraid of what he might say. He’s afraid that Dean is going to ask why he did that, or what does it mean. Castiel knows _why_ he did it – he has a massive crush on Dean Winchester and he had a moment of weakness. But he has no _idea_ what it means. What’s going to happen now?

                So he cuts Dean off before Dean can say anything else. “I really…I should go,” he says, hesitating before hugging himself and turning, walking away from Dean and away from Hautley’s Bend as fast as he can. He can feel Dean’s eyes burning into his back all the way down the street until he turns the corner. He dares to glance once back at the park before turning to head down the next block, and Dean is still standing there, just a figure in the shadows.

                Castiel walks a few more steps, and then he has to stop. He stands there for a moment in the cold, and then he reaches up and actually slaps himself. _Hard_. His cheek stings and the slap is overly loud in the silence of the Christmas night, but it was there, and it was _real_. He half-expected to slap himself, and wake up. But he’s already awake. This is really _happening_. He just kissed Dean Winchester. He didn’t dream that.

                _Oh my God_.

                Castiel swallows, and can’t help but lick his lips. The flavor of Dean lingers there, and Cas is already half-hard in his pants, and it’s all equally as wonderful as it is horrible. How is he supposed to get over Dean now? How is he supposed to be expected to move on when he knows what Dean tastes like now? When he knows the noise Dean makes when someone kisses him back? How is he supposed to get over the feeling of Dean’s soft hair between his fingers?             

                Castiel groans in frustration, resolutely ignoring his suddenly-tighter pants, and he makes his way home. It’s just beginning to snow a little as he walks up to his front door, and he has to pause outside for a second. In the aftermath of Dean’s kiss, he forgot about the whole divorce thing. But now, here he is at home, and he really doesn’t want to go inside and face his angry parents.

                But Anna is in there, and she probably needs him, and Castiel shouldn’t have left her there alone with their parents in the first place. It was selfish.

                But he can’t find it in himself to regret it, because he _kissed_ Dean Winchester, and even if it was wrong and it’s never going to happen again, it was totally worth it.

                Castiel swallows hard and prepares himself before opening the door and walking inside out of the cold. The house is surprisingly quiet. He walks down the hall and checks the kitchen. His parents aren’t there, but the smashed plate is still on the floor and the apple cobbler is still in a sticky mess on the wall. Castiel rolls his eyes. He’ll clean that up in the morning. Right now he doesn’t have the mental capacity to think.

                He glances briefly down the downstairs hallway, and sees that the guest bedroom/his parent’s bedroom door is closed, but there’s light coming from under the door. He wonders if maybe his parents worked it out, but he doesn’t allow himself to hope that. One of them could have left to go to a hotel. Castiel didn’t pay attention to whether both their cars were outside.

                He sighs and wanders up the stairs. He pokes his head into Anna’s room, and she’s asleep on her bed. He walks in there briefly to pull the blankets up over her shoulders and turn off her little radio that’s playing soft pop music. Then Cas wanders down the hall to the bathroom, closing the door and locking it.

                He’s hoping that a shower will snap him out of his daze, and he needs it to warm himself up anyway since their house is cold and Castiel just spent a long while outside without a jacket. He turns on the shower, but doesn’t climb in just yet. He steps up in front of the mirror and locks eyes with himself.

                He has a rosy blush to his cheeks from the cold, and his lips are swollen and slick from the kiss. He reaches up and touches them with his fingertips. They’re still tingling from the feeling of Dean’s tongue. It’s the most amazing, erotic, intoxicating thing that has ever happened to Castiel.

                And all at once, he’s laughing. He stares at his lips in the mirror, laughing to himself so hard that he has to hold his stomach. He laughs and laughs and laughs, trying to keep it quiet so he doesn’t wake up Anna.

                And when he finally stops laughing, his smile disappears instantly, and he’s back to staring blankly at himself, feeling dizzy and weak, until the mirror fogs up from the steam of the shower too much for Castiel to see himself anymore.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean tries to be quiet as he walks into his house, but he’s so excited he can’t really help but bang around a little.

                Did that just happen? Was that a dream? Dean’s not sure if he’s imagining all of this, but he can still feel Castiel’s lips against his own, taste the flavor of cinnamon apples on his tongue, smell the lingering salt from his tears.

                Dean’s heart is going to beat right up his throat and fall out of his mouth if he doesn’t calm down, but he _can’t_.

                _He just kissed Castiel fucking Novak_. And it was the most intoxicating sensation he’s ever experienced.

                He tries not to think about the way Cas seemed to panic at the end there and had just run off without explanation. He just thinks about the kiss, and how perfect it was, and how muscular Castiel’s back felt under Dean’s hand.

                _Fuck_ , it was perfect.

                Dean goes back to Sam’s room, but Sam isn’t in there. Dean checks his own room and finds it empty as well, so he wanders back out to the living room and finds Sam asleep on the couch under Mary’s blanket in front of the fireplace. The fire has burned down to the point where it’s just a pile of glowing red embers that look like the tip of a cigarette.

                Dean looks away and rounds the couch, crouching down in front of Sam and poking his nose. Sam snuffles, but doesn’t wake up, so Dean does it again. Normally, he would feel bad about waking Sam up, but he’s just too excited right now to care. He pokes Sam’s nose at least a dozen times before Sam snorts and blinks his eyes open sleepily, rubbing at his nose and giving Dean a glare when he realizes why he woke up.

                “What?” he grumbles sleepily.

                Dean grins. “Guess what?”

                Sam narrows his eyes and groans, rolling over so he’s facing the back of the couch. “I don’t care. Go away,” he mutters groggily, pulling the blanket over his head.

                But Dean doesn’t let that discourage him. He stands up and grabs the end of the blanket, yanking it off of Sam, and Sam immediately curls up in a ball as cold air washes over him. He makes a whiney noise of complaint and sits up quickly, glaring hard at Dean, his hair sticking up in tufts like a bale of hay. “ _What_?” he snaps. Dean chuckles. Sam has never been a graceful person upon first waking up. It’s when he’s at his worst, and Dean finds it hilarious.

                He grins and plops down on the couch in front of Sam. “You have to guess,” he says, reaching out and smoothing Sam’s messy hair down a bit. One day, Dean swears he’s going to cut Sam’s hair in his sleep. The kid absolutely _refuses_ to have his hair cut.

                Sam rolls his eyes. “Just tell me you jerk.” He slaps Dean’s hands away and smoothes down his own hair, rubbing at his crusty eyes.

                Dean sighs and relents. His body is tingling. “I kissed Castiel,” he says, and Sam blinks his eyes open, looking up at Dean in disbelief.

                “No you didn’t,” he says skeptically.

                Dean holds up his hand. “Scout’s honor,” he swears, “I just kissed him at Hautley’s Bend.”

                Sam scoffs. “Dean, you were never a boy scout. You don’t get to do the Scout’s honor thing.”

                Dean nudges his shoulder. “Whatever, I swear okay?” he says, “I just kissed him Sammy.”

                Sam studies Dean’s face, looking for any indication that he’s making it up. But when he sees how Dean’s eyes are twinkling, and how Dean can’t stop smiling, Sam’s eyes grow wide and his eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling. “Really?”

                Dean grins. “Really.”

                And _then_ a big smile spreads across Sam’s face. That’s what Dean was waiting for. He loves when Sammy grins like that, all excited. Dean needed someone to be excited with. “Wow!” Sam exclaims, “I didn’t realize you had the balls for it!”

                Dean scoffs. “Fuck you,” he says, shoving Sam’s head and climbing up off the couch, starting to walk towards the hallway.

                “Hey, wait!” Sam calls after him, “You can’t just leave it at that. I need details!”

                Dean rolls his eyes. “Like I’d tell you anything else,” he snorts, “I just wanted you to know.”

                “Jerk!” Sam shouts after him as Dean disappears down the hallway, and Dean chuckles, walking into his room and closing the door. He peels off his clothes, leaving just his boxers on, and falls back into bed. He stares up at the origami Yoda mobile and smiles to himself.

                Deep down, he knows he shouldn’t be smiling. He knows he doesn’t deserve this, especially after what he did to Castiel in those woods.

                But it’s Christmas, and Dean is going to allow himself this one little thing. He’s just going to let himself be happy about that _spectacular_ kiss for one night, and then in the morning, he can go back to being the broody self-loathing emo he always is. For now, he just tucks his arms behind his head, licks his tingling lips, and just _smiles_.

 

*       *       *

 

                For the last two weeks of Christmas break, Castiel does nothing besides work, and hang out at Missouri’s. He tries to distract himself as much as possible, even allowing himself to think about his parent’s divorce; but apart from school, there really isn’t that much to do in Rail Pass if you’re not a delinquent.

                And so, the tradeoff to Castiel’s boredom is…he thinks about Dean Winchester every single moment of every single day for the next two weeks. He thinks about the way Dean’s lips felt, how his _hands_ felt, about the small noises Dean made. Castiel could write an entire epic poem the length of Homer’s _The Odyssey_ all about that kiss at Hautley’s Bend.

                To be fair, it was Castiel’s first _real_ kiss, so it’s obviously got to mean something. He’s fairly certain that Dean probably isn’t laying in his room late at night just thinking about the way Castiel pulled in breaths between each kiss. He probably isn’t laying there thinking about Castiel’s blown pupils like Cas is thinking about Dean’s.

                It’s a little pathetic really. Except…

                Dean was the one who kissed _him_.

                At first, Castiel kissed Dean, and it was a mistake, and it lasted three seconds. But then Dean kissed _him_ after Cas pulled away. Dean _kissed_ him.

                Castiel is very good at putting himself down though – it’s one of his few great talents – so he spins all these ideas in his head. Dean seems like a bit of a player, and on top of the bullying, he’s got a womanizer reputation too.

                And yeah, so he likes boys too?

                But that doesn’t mean that he likes _Castiel_. Not like that. Maybe he was just kissing Castiel back because Dean saw an opportunity to get laid and took his shot. Cas has met his fair share of players before, so he knows the lengths at which people will go to get into someone’s pants.

                And frankly, a guy who looks like Adonis and could have anyone he wanted, is not going to be interested in someone like Castiel. So why would Dean ever be interested in him?

                Castiel sits around for the last two weeks of winter break, and convinces himself of these thoughts. He convinces himself that the kiss was just another game. It doesn’t mean that the kiss wasn’t _wonderful_ , because it was. It was fucking _fantastic_. But Castiel needs to belittle it as much as possible.

                If he doesn’t, he’s afraid he might get too attached to Dean and it’ll all just hurt more when nothing happens.

                He spends the rest of winter break in a pretty foul mood, and works out his frustration mostly by jerking off a lot (practically every night, as sad and pathetic as that is) and throwing himself into work and cooking with Missouri. Missouri knows something’s going on with him, because Castiel is too quiet, but she doesn’t pry. She just lets him punch down the dough as much as he wants, and makes sure he has mitts on before he grabs things out of the hot oven.

                During the last week before school starts up again, Castiel is at home with Anna, and they’re both sitting in front of the TV. Castiel doesn’t even know what they’re watching, because he’s too busy thinking about Dean’s tongue. They said goodbye to their parents the day after Christmas, but both Naomi and Bartholomew barely said two words to them before going their separate ways, arguing the whole way down the driveway as they got into their cars. Castiel is relieved that they’re gone, but it leaves less distractions for him, so he just thinks about Dean a lot.

                Anna notices him staring off into space, and punches him in the arm. _Ow_. Anna is getting better at punching people.

                He winces and rubs his arm, looking over at her. “What was that for?”

                She glares. “You’re not even watching the show.”

                He sighs. “I’m just tired,” he says.

                She purses her lips and shakes her head. “You’ve been out of it ever since Christmas. Is it about mom and dad?”

                Cas rolls his eyes. “ _No_ ,” he says, “Just stop worrying about it.”

                She narrows her eyes at him, turning towards him. “You’re hiding something.”

                Castiel fixes her with a look. “And why does it matter to you what I do?”

                “Because,” Anna smiles, “I think I know your secret.”

                Castiel crunches his forehead up in confusion. “What?”

                She grins at him, folding her arms. “You remember Sam from Hautley’s Bend?” she asks.

                Castiel bites his lip. He doesn’t like where this is going. But he nods anyway.

                “You remember his big brother Dean?” she asks, her smile growing more sly.

                Castiel can’t help but blush when she says Dean’s name, but he tries not to let his expression falter. _Does he remember Dean?_ Ha! He nods as nonchalantly as possible.

                “Well he showed up here the other day,” she says, and Castiel can’t help but let his eyes widen a little.

                “Here?” he asks. He didn’t even know Dean knew where he lives. But then again, everybody seemed to know where they live when they moved in, as this house was the only house up for sale in the town. Maybe that’s how Dean knows?

                Anna nods. “He was asking about you, but you were at work,” she says, “And he looked all hot and bothered.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

                She grins. “You’re dating him, aren’t you,” she assumes, and Castiel’s eyes actually pop out of his head.

                “What? No!” he says, “Where did you get that idea?”

                “Because you’ve been all distracted lately! And then Dean shows up here? What am I supposed to think?” she laughs.

                He scoffs and shakes his head. “You have too wide of an imagination,” he accuses, “I barely know Dean. He probably just needed to borrow my homework.”

                “Mm-hmm,” Anna says, raising her eyebrow to indicate that she doesn’t believe a word Castiel is saying.

                But honestly, Cas is telling the truth. He and Dean aren’t _dating_. They’re the furthest thing from dating. They kissed once, and it was the best kiss Castiel could ever imagine, but that doesn’t mean anything else is going to happen.

                _But Dean showed up here_. Castiel bites the inside of his cheek, pondering that. The fact that Dean came over could counter Castiel’s idea that Dean is just a player looking to get laid. But Castiel is _desperate_ to think that Dean is just a scumbag, because then it’ll be easier to get over him.

                _Fuck_. Dean Winchester is turning him inside out and carving him raw. And Castiel must be a masochist because he _loves_ every minute of it as much as he hates it. He loves thinking about Dean’s little groans while he masturbates. He loves coming with Dean’s name on his lips. It doesn’t matter that he feels stupid afterwards for doing it, because in the moment, it’s the best feeling ever.  

                And he wants _more_. He wants to kiss Dean again, and he wants to touch him. He wants _more_ , and it _hurts._

Anna turns to him again, breaking him once more from his thoughts. “Oh, by the way, Gabriel called and he’s coming over tonight with Charlie and Kevin.”

                Castiel raises one eyebrow. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

                She snorts and rolls her eyes. “If I told you ahead of time, you would have backed out. You’ve been acting like such a hermit lately.”

                Cas glares at her and sits back into the couch again. She’s sort of right, but at the same time, Castiel loves his friends, and he wants to spend as much time as he can with them before Naomi and Bartholomew make them move away from Rail Pass and on to the next town. He realizes he hasn’t hung out with them once since winter break started, and he feels a little guilty for it.

                Dean is consuming his mind so much that Castiel is forgetting about his friends. Everything about this is bad, but it’s so, so good too.

                He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to expel thoughts of Dean from his head for now. His friends deserve Castiel’s undivided attention, and damn it, he’s going to give it to them.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean goes back to Hautley’s Bend every single day for the last couple weeks of Christmas break. He sits on the creaky wooden swing for hours, just smoking and waiting. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for. Even if Castiel _does_ show up, what does Dean expect to happen?

                He was right about his good mood. The night he and Castiel kissed, he was ecstatic. But it all sunk in the next day. Castiel ran away after the kiss, with barely another word. It was clear that Castiel regretted it. And Dean doesn’t deserve Castiel anyway.

                So Dean has once again reverted back to his usual gloomy self, hating almost everything, and hating himself most of all.

                Nevertheless, he sits at Hautley’s Bend. He sits there when it snows, he sits there in the cold, he sits there at night. He just sits there. He keeps thinking that maybe Castiel will show up. And what if he shows up and Dean’s not there? What if Dean misses it?

                And what if he _doesn’t_ miss it, and Castiel shows up while he’s there? What would they do then? Talk? Kiss again? Ignore each other?

                Dean is completely consumed with thoughts of this blue eyed boy. And that’s not exactly any different than the way he’s been obsessed with the guy for months now. But still. It hurts.

                And Dean deserves all that hurt.

                He grows a pair and actually walks to Castiel’s house once. Just once. His little sister Anna answers the door, and tells him Castiel isn’t there, and Dean is actually a little relieved on top of his disappointment. It took a lot of guts for him to go to Cas’s house, but he didn’t exactly have a plan for when he got there. Maybe it’s a good thing that Cas wasn’t there.

                Dean is sitting at Hautley’s Bend again in the middle of the morning when Crowley suddenly shows up at the park the week before winter break ends. Dean doesn’t really say anything to him, because he hasn’t been talking to _any_ of his friends, Crowley included, even though he misses having Crowley there. Dickhead or not, the Brit has always been a decent friend, all things considered.

                Crowley takes a seat on the swing next to Dean, and they just sit there in silence for a couple minutes. Dean doesn’t say anything, but he pulls out a cigarette and hands it to Crowley, who takes it with a small nod of thanks and lights it up.

                It’s actually not terribly uncomfortable sitting here in silence with Crowley. Neither he nor Dean are particularly talkative people, and they’ve been friends for so long that it’s just not awkward to hang out and not talk. But of course, Crowley has to break the silence.

                “Do anything fun for Christmas?” he asks, his voice sounding a little too sweet.

                Dean raises an eyebrow and looks over at his friend skeptically. “Like you give a shit,” he says with a little smile.

                Crowley laughs at that. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t,” he confirms, pulling out a whole bottle of impressively nice scotch from the inside of his pea coat, “Drink?” Dean snorts, wondering how the hell Crowley even fits the whole bottle inside his jacket without looking like he has something under there.

                He shrugs. “Yeah, okay.” He reaches for the bottle, but Crowley pulls it away, holding up a finger.

                “On one condition,” he says, and Dean rolls his eyes, leaning away.

                “What’s that?” he mutters, sounding unamused.

                Crowley just smiles, because his favorite activity is pissing people off, especially when it comes to Dean. “You have to come to Ghost Town with me,” he says.

                Dean feels his face drain of color, and he tries to keep his expression neutral, but he has to look away from Crowley and take a drag on his cigarette to keep his poker face on. He pretends to be looking at something interesting down the street while he schools his expression. “Why?” he asks, and his voice comes out as more of a growl than he had hoped for.

                Crowley scoffs. “What’s so wrong about Ghost Town?” he demands, “We used to go there every day! It’s our _place_! We have loads of good memories there. Why are you suddenly so opposed to the idea?”

                Dean feels that crawling sensation start up at the base of his neck again – the one he gets every time anything involving Alastair and Ghost Town is mentioned. It’s been getting easier to deal with it. He hasn’t puked or anything in a while at just the mere thought of it, but it still doesn’t mean that Dean likes to remember it.

                He deliberately looks over at the place on the sidewalk across the park where Dean and Cas were sitting when they kissed. It makes him feel marginally better, and helps him relax a little. He looks back at Crowley. “Why are you so set on going there?” he asks, “There are tons of other places we could go in Rail Pass. Why do we have to go all the way out there every time?”

                Crowley’s face falls, and even though he’s a pompous dick with a God complex, Dean actually feels a little bad. He feels like he just took a lollipop from a little kid. “Yeah, but it’s _Ghost Town_ ,” Crowley pouts, “I mean we’ve been going there since freshman year. It’s where we popped my cigarette cherry, remember?”

                Dean actually snorts a little laugh. They were fourteen when Dean and his friends went to Ghost Town with Crowley for the first time, and the very first time Crowley tried a cigarette, he coughed so hard he farted. “You’re never gonna live that one down, just so you know,” Dean chuckles, taking another drag on his smoke.

                Crowley chuckles. “I’m not even embarrassed anymore,” he claims, “You slags have told the story so many times, it’s like it happened to someone else.”

                Dean pops his eyebrows and shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah, you just keep telling yourself that Gas-X.”

                They both chuckle and then fade off into silence again. Crowley rocks himself just slightly with his heels, and the rusted chains of the swing groan rhythmically like a dying animal. Dean chews on the filter of his cigarette, enjoying the taste of the menthol, and stares at the spot where he and Cas made out.

                Would it be so bad for Dean to go back to Ghost Town? It’s not like Alastair is going to be there, right? Maybe it’s what Dean needs to help him get over what happened. Every time he thinks about it, his hands start shaking, and his scars flare up with phantom pains, and so far the only thing that’s helped at all is putting out cigarette after cigarette on his forearm. But he’s developed a taste for that, and burning himself is almost like a hobby now. It’s starting to worry him a bit.

                Maybe going back to Ghost Town would help. And maybe it would get him to stop burning himself, because he’s starting to think that maybe that’s getting a little out of hand.  

                Dean swallows back the bile rising in his throat, and inconspicuously presses the heel of his hand into his scars to stave off the ache. He looks over at Crowley. “Okay,” he says, chewing on his lip.

                “Okay?”

                Dean swallows again, convulsively. “Okay, let’s go to Ghost Town.”

                Crowley stares at him for a second, and then a huge smile spreads across his face. “Really?”

                Dean actually chuckles a little at how much Crowley sounds like a little kid right now. “Yes, let’s just go before I change my mind.”

                Crowley doesn’t need to be asked twice. He jumps up from his swing excitedly, and Dean stands too. He holds onto the chain of the swing for a moment, just making sure that his legs don’t give out under him with his sudden rush of nerves.

                He glances both ways down the street, his eyes scanning for any sign of life, just in case Castiel happens to be walking towards Hautley’s Bend by chance. But there’s no one out here except for an old lady walking her dog near the public restrooms across the way.

                Dean blows out all the breath in his lungs, and then lets go of the swing, following Crowley into the woods. They take a shortcut, which is basically just straight through the trees, where they have to stomp through some bushes and duck under branches in a couple places since there’s no worn path here.

                It takes them only about thirty minutes or less to get to the old abandoned train cars. Every step Dean takes in that direction feels like one step closer to the edge of a cliff, and he’s just going to fall off at any second and get speared by a giant stake, Vlad the Impaler style.

                His heart is racing, and his scars are pulsing violent waves of phantom pains that have Dean hunching over cradling his side every few minutes. When Crowley asks, Dean says it’s a side ache, and his friend laughs and says he’s getting flabby.

                Dean has to admit that having Crowley out here with him is helpful, but Dean would almost rather it be Castiel with him right now. He clings shamelessly to the thoughts of Castiel’s sweet, delicious mouth, and his gentle hands touching Dean on Christmas night. Anything to keep him from having a panic attack in front of Crowley right now.

                When they make it to Ghost Town, it looks exactly the same as it always has. A few of the train cars are on their sides and overgrown with weeds. The one Dean and his friends always sit in is upright and full of old, rotting lumber. But, even though everything is physically in its place, Ghost Town looks so much more menacing to Dean now. The paint looks darker on the train cars, the weeds look more like arms, and the inside of their usual spot looks like a black pit of everything bad you could ever think of.

                Dean stops at the edge of the trees, hesitating for a moment when he sees the train car because he feels phantom hands all over him and his shoulder aches like there are teeth sinking into it. Crowley walks ahead, but stops when he realizes Dean isn’t following him anymore.

                “Well come on then,” he urges, raising the bottle of scotch and waving it in the air before continuing on towards the train car.

                Dean swallows hard, and takes a moment to just breathe. He reaches down and presses the pad of his thumb _hard_ into the most recent cigarette burn on his arm through the sleeve of his jacket. A stinging pain lances through his arm as he presses into the wound, and a wave of giddiness overcomes him for a moment as endorphins spiral down from his brain. It’s like he has his own personal constant IV drip of feel-good drugs, and every time he hurts himself, it just makes more drugs swirl around in his system.

                It works, for now, and he forces his heavy legs to continue on, crossing the small clearing to the train car. Crowley has already climbed inside, and he is sitting in his usual spot on an old stump that they dragged in here their sophomore year when Crowley claimed that he didn’t like sitting on the rotting floor.

                Dean climbs in and purposely sits where Gordon usually sits, because it’s furthest away from where he was attacked. He can’t help but let his eyes trail over to the exact spot where Alastair hurt him. There’s a fading dark stain on the floor, and Dean almost vomits when he realizes that it’s his own blood from where his forehead impacted the floor when Al knocked him down face-first over a month ago.

                Crowley snaps in his face, and Dean blinks, realizing that he’s zoned out a bit. He accepts the bottle of scotch when Crowley hands it to him and takes a long swig, ignoring the burn of the alcohol, the corners of his eyes watering with how much he pours down his throat.

                “Whoa killer, slow down,” Crowley laughs, taking the bottle back as Dean coughs but keeps all the alcohol he just chugged down. He’s always hated scotch. He’s more of a whiskey guy. But right now, he needs _something_ to keep his mind off of what happened the last time he was here.

                Crowley rambles on mindlessly as they drink. He gets more talkative when he’s drunk, and Dean just sits there and listens like he always does. It’s actually nice. After Dean’s taken a half dozen swigs or so, and the fuzzy feeling of drunkenness starts to set in, he finds it easier to push thoughts of the attack aside, and he just blinks blearily and stares at the woods out of the train car, thinking about Castiel as Crowley talks.

                Whenever bad memories start to trickle in again, Dean just presses his thumb into one of his cigarette burns through his sleeve again until the memory flickers and fades away. It feels good and it works, and he thinks to himself that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea that they came to Ghost Town. Maybe Dean can finally move on.

                He drinks a little more than half the bottle of scotch, and when he is well and truly drunk, it’s a little after noon. Crowley steps out for a minute to take a piss, and Dean removes his jacket, balling it up and using it as a pillow as he lays down. There’s no way he’s going to make it home walking if he’s this drunk. The world is spinning and everything feels heavy and thick.

                The world still spins a bit when he closes his eyes, like that feeling you get when you try to go to sleep after spending an entire day at an amusement park on roller coasters. But Dean keeps his eyes closed anyway, and he falls asleep cradling his burned arm to his chest. He barely even hears Crowley come back from his piss, and before long, he’s dead to the world.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel drops Anna off at Missouri’s for the rest of the night, since Gabe, Charlie, and Kevin are planning on staying for a sleepover and Castiel doesn’t want to keep Anna awake with how loud they are. She’s okay with it, and hangs out with Jesse in Missouri’s living room for the rest of the night.

                Cas’s friends arrive shortly thereafter, and Gabe grins when Castiel answers the door, holding up two grocery bags. “I brought supplies,” he says, and Cas rolls his eyes as they carry the bags to the living room. When they dump them out on the floor, it’s just about every type of candy you can buy at the little convenience store near Main Street. It’s the only place open this late, so Gabe argues that he had no choice but to buy all this stuff.

                Charlie doesn’t waste any time before starting up the questions. “Where the hell have you been?” she demands, sucking on a candy cane that Gabriel informed them was half-price since Christmas has already passed.

                Cas shrugs guiltily. “I’ve just been distracted lately,” he admits, “I’m sorry I haven’t hung out with you guys.”

                “It’s cool, I’ve been holed up playing video games for a week straight,” Kevin admits, and then grins when the car crash sound echoes through the walls of the house and the heat kicks back on, “Hey! Look at that! It hasn’t broken again yet!”

                Castiel smiles. “I’m impressed with your handy work this time around,” he compliments, and Kevin pops his eyebrows cockily before grabbing something called a Kazoozle that looks like a licorice stick filled with blue paste. He chews on it thoughtfully, leaning back so he can feel the heat coming out of the vent over the TV.     

                “Why have you been distracted?” Charlie asks, “It’s winter break. It’s supposed to be fun.”

                Cas huffs a little laugh and leans back, sucking on a Jolly Rancher. “My parents are getting a divorce,” he says, and then he freezes for a moment. He just up and _said_ that out loud. Wow. He’s usually not so open about his problems, but having Gabe, Charlie, and Kevin here is like talking to family. He feels like he can tell them anything, and that feels amazing.

                “Aww, I’m sorry!” Charlie says, “What happened?”

                Cas snorts. “My mom had an affair,” he replies. He doesn’t want to get into this too much, because then he’ll start freaking out again like he did on Christmas, thinking about all the normalcy he’s _never_ going to have in his family. So he just shrugs. “I’m okay with it,” he adds, trying to sound nonchalant, “I’m just worried about Anna.”

                Gabe hums in acknowledgement. “Hey, you know, maybe it’s not such a bad thing that your parents are getting  divorce,” he says.

                Kevin wrinkles his forehead. “How is that not a bad thing? My parents got a divorce when I was three and I literally haven’t seen my dad since.”

                Charlie slaps his leg. “You’re not helping!” she scolds, “Cas, don’t worry, your dad’s not gonna ditch.”

                Cas raises an eyebrow and chuckles a little. “I honestly don’t think it would make a difference either way. I hardly see my dad anyway,” he points out.

                Charlie purses her lips at that, but doesn’t say anything, because she knows Castiel doesn’t like people’s pity, and she would no doubt say something about how she’s sorry that Cas and Anna have mostly-absent parents.

                Castiel looks away and quickly grabs a Kazoozle, just to try it out.

                “I’m just saying,” Gabe continues, “I mean, maybe since your parents are getting a divorce, one of them will decide to just keep this house here. And then you won’t move away from Rail Pass.”

                Charlie’s face lights up. “Yeah! See? Maybe there’s hope that we’ll get to keep you!”

                Castiel considers that for a moment, smiling a little. “That would be really nice,” he agrees, but he doesn’t allow himself to get his hopes up yet. Hope is dangerous. He’s very recently come to realize that.

                They chatter on for the next couple hours, just eating candy and gossiping about whatever they can think of. Castiel decides not to tell his friends about kissing Dean at Hautley’s Bend. Not yet. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it if it turns out that Dean is just playing with his head. He doesn’t want his friends to see his disappointment, and say _I told you so_ if Dean and Castiel don’t end up being what Cas really wants deep down.

                They pop in a really cheesy horror movie called _2001 Maniacs_ about some hick town filled with cannibals. It’s nasty, and over-sexualized, and gory, but Cas enjoys it mostly because of Gabe’s ongoing commentary throughout the whole movie. They all end up just laughing until tears stream down their faces during the whole film. The next movie they put in is _The Abandoned_ , about a lady who inherits a haunted house in Russia from her estranged parents. It messes with Castiel’s head, and he’s actually really hooked on it, which is unusual. He doesn’t really watch movies very much.

                But the best part about the whole night, as they watch movie after movie, and laugh until they cry over and over again, is that Castiel hardly has any time at all to obsess over Dean in his head. The distraction is a welcome relief.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean is surfacing groggily. It’s like being at the deep end of a swimming pool, floating at the bottom, and someone is standing at the edge of the pool shouting at you, but their voice is muffled by the water.

                This is a familiar feeling, waking up while he’s still a little drunk. But it doesn’t make it any less unpleasant.

                Dean hears muffled voices, and then someone is calling his name. “Dean?” the voice says, “Wake up sunshine.” Something about that voice sends needles shooting down Dean’s spine, and he has the urge to vomit. He drank too much scotch. He’s probably going to puke at some point. Ugh.

                He blinks his eyes open when the nasty voice keeps calling his name is a slick, too-sweet tone, as if Dean is a little kid they’re trying to wake up. Everything is a little blurry at first, and the first thing he notices is that it’s dark outside. He’s still in the train car, but he fell asleep in here around midday. He wonders how long he’s been asleep.

                He hears several voice talking and laughing, muffled as he resurfaces, and when he finally blinks his vision clear, the first person he sees is Alastair.

                It’s just Al’s face, floating above him, and Dean nearly swallows his own tongue in surprise, choking on his own throat. He thinks for a second that this is just a lingering figment of a dream, or a nightmare, but then he blinks a few more times and things come into better focus. Al is right there, kneeling next to him, his face close, breath rancid, and Dean just _reacts_ without thinking.

                He comes fully awake in an instant, his fist flying up and connecting _hard_ with Alastair’s jaw, sending Al sprawling onto his back. Dean feels immense satisfaction sink in with how hard the punch was as he shouts “Get the fuck away from me!”

                “Whoa! Dean! Chill out, it’s just Al!” he hears Gordon’s voice say, and Dean sits up quickly, his eyes darting around, suddenly very confused. His vision is swimming, but he still manages to pick out Zach, Gordon, and Crowley all standing there, while Alastair is still sprawled on the floor nursing his freshly-injured face.

                “What the fuck?” Dean demands, looking up at Crowley. He sways a little, still drunk, but he can feel a headache coming on as his impending hang over starts to creep in.

                Crowley holds his hands up. “You fell asleep. I got bored, so I called them,” he explains, and Dean lets that sink in before he rolls his eyes.

                He wants to snap at Crowley that he shouldn’t have done that, but Dean really has no right to be angry. Crowley doesn’t know about what happened to Dean the last time he was here in this train car. He doesn’t know that Dean can’t look at Alastair anymore without nearly panicking or vomiting.

                When Al shifts a little, starting to sit up from where he fell on the floor, Dean actually flinches, and eyes Alastair with a hard glare. Al just laughs that hissing, nasty laugh of his, wiping a little blood off the corner of his mouth as he stands. He offers a hand down to Dean to help him up. “Great right hook you have there Winchester,” he compliments dryly.

                Dean looks at Al’s proffered hand in front of him, and his eyes fall upon Alastair’s too-long fingernails. His side flares up in pain again, and very abruptly, he leans to the side and pukes up all the scotch he drank earlier.

                Gordon and Zach burst out laughing, and Crowley jumps up to avoid getting vomit on his shoes. Alastair stays right where he is, because he fucking knows exactly why Dean’s throwing up right now, and it isn’t just because of the alcohol. Dean wipes his mouth at the same time as he swings his free arm back, smacking Alastair’s hand away from his face and climbing to his feet, snatching his leather jacket up from the floor and storming out of the train car before he throws up again.

                “Dean! Where the hell are you going!” Crowley calls after him, and Dean would feel bad for ditching him if he wasn’t shaking so hard right now. He stumbles through the woods as fast as he can without falling, hoping to God that Alastair doesn’t decide to follow him. This feel eerily similar to that night Thanksgiving Break. Only this time, Dean isn’t tripping on acid – he’s drunk instead, and disoriented as hell trying to make his way home.

                It must take him two hours before he finally finds his way through the woods. He breaks free onto a neighborhood street and sways as he walks. He doesn’t even realize where he’s going until suddenly, he’s on Castiel’s front lawn.

                _What the hell_?

                How did he get here?

                Somewhere deep down, he knows the person he wants to see the most right now is Cas. But that’s wrong, and he can’t. Just because they kissed once, doesn’t mean Castiel wants to see him. Dean blinks a few times, trying to sober up a bit in the chill of the night. He squints at the house, and sees movement in the front window.

                His stomach flutters a bit in the best of ways when he spots Castiel inside the window. He’s not alone. Dean recognizes Charlie Bradbury with him, and that Asian kid from the stairwell. There’s a shorter guy with them too that Dean’s seen Cas with in theatre. As Dean watches, Castiel throws his head back and laughs at something one of his friends says.

                Dean smiles a little when he sees Cas laugh, because it’s adorable and Dean doesn’t really see it all that often. But the smile quickly fades from his face, because he wishes he was in there with them. He wishes he was in a group of his friends laughing and eating what looks like candy. He wants that.

                And he realizes, as he looks in at Castiel, that Cas doesn’t _need_ him. If Dean disappeared from Castiel’s life, it would make absolutely no difference to Castiel whatsoever. He has his friends, and theatre, and he’s a good student. If anything, Dean disappearing from Cas’s life would be a _good_ thing for Castiel. He wouldn’t have had to spend the night out in the woods half-dead. He wouldn’t have been beaten up as much. He might be happier.

                Dean grits his teeth to stave off the urge to cry as he watches them. He knows the only reason he wants to cry right now is because he’s drunk and still shaky from waking up to Al’s face staring back at him. He has to tear his eyes away from the window, because he’s breathing too hard all of the sudden and he wishes he could just sink into the frozen ground and disappear.  

                He quickly digs out his cigarettes from his pocket and lights one up with shaking hands. And he can’t help it. He has to do it. Because it’s the only thing that’s going to help him calm down right now.

                He takes once glance back up at the window, and sees Castiel and his friends burst out into another round of laughter that’s so loud Dean can hear it all the way outside where he’s standing at the edge of the frozen lawn.

                Dean takes a drag on his cigarette, and fumbles with his sleeve, trying to pull it up. But he’s too drunk right now, and he keeps missing, but he needs to do it _now_. Groaning in frustration, he just snatches the cigarette out of his mouth and presses it to his open palm instead, since he can’t get his sleeve up fast enough for his racing heart.

                He presses down hard, grinding the burning tip into his skin as he grits his teeth. It hurts more on his palm than it does on his forearm but that’s good right now. He feels it eating his skin away, and he grinds it in so hard that the body of the cigarette collapses just as it goes out.

                Dean stands there shaking, and he waits for the flood of endorphins. When it comes, it washes over him like diving into a cold lake in the desert. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, and allows himself a few minutes to just calm down.

                When his heart finally slows down just a hair, and he doesn’t feel like his bones are going to shatter, Dean opens his eyes and looks down at his hand. The burn is uneven and has bits of ash in it. He flicks as much of the loose ash as he can off of his palm, and then opens and closes his hand a few times, testing the way the burned skin pulls and scrunches with the movement. That’s going to be a bitch while it’s healing, but Dean is too drunk to care right now.

                Swallowing hard, grimacing at the taste of vomit in his mouth, he takes one last glance up at the window where Cas and his friends are. They’re chattering amongst themselves, oblivious to Dean’s presence outside and the turmoil in his head. Dean shakes his head, clenching jaw, and he turns away, heading home.

                When he gets there, all the lights are off. John’s door is closed, and Dean hears loud snoring coming from inside. Usually loud snoring means that John went to bed drunk, which is a good thing because that means he’s a heavy sleeper tonight. Dean runs into a few things and curses in his drunkenness, but makes it to his room and strips down. He pulls on a fresh long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants, and then goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth really quick before he walks down to Sam’s room.

                When he tries the door, it’s locked from the inside. John must have been a piece of work tonight for Sam to lock his door. Dean swallows back his guilt for not being here to protect his brother, and goes back to his own room, climbing out the window. He crawls through the dead garden of weeds over to Sam’s window, and eases it open quietly, not wanting to wake his brother. He hoists himself up and ends up falling inside a lot more loudly than he intended. But Sam doesn’t stir – he’s a deep sleeper.

                Dean winches as he uses his burned hand to catch himself, and closes the window, pushing Sam gently over so there’s room for Dean to crawl into the bed. Sam groans and turns over, but doesn’t wake up, and Dean lays down next to him, stuffing a pillow between them again. He came in here to make himself feel better, because at least _someone_ in the world needs him, right? Sam needs him. Maybe Castiel doesn’t, but Sam does.

                Dean just lays there for a while, wishing he could fall asleep. But his mind is racing with the image of Alastair’s face floating above him. He’s afraid that if he closes his eyes, he’s going to open them and Al will be there again, grinning with his bad breath and his long, dirty fingernails.

                Dean shivers and swallows a few times, and turns over so he’s facing Sam. He wants to reach over and hold Sam’s wrist for some measure of comfort, but Sam has both his hands tucked against his chest and he’s facing the wall, so Dean would have to wake him up to hold his wrist, and he doesn’t want Sam to see him drunk.

                So Dean thinks about Castiel. It makes him sad right now, to think about Cas, but he focuses his thoughts on how it felt to kiss him. How Cas tastes like cinnamon apples, and how, in that moment, it felt like time was moving too fast, yet had stopped altogether in the same instant. It was like being launched into the sun and exploding into a million pieces. It was like diving from an airplane. It was everything good wrapped up in the feeling of Castiel’s lips against his.

                For a little while, until he can fall asleep, Dean just pretends that it’s possible to live inside a single moment for the rest of his life. If he had to choose a moment to exist solely within, it would be that kiss. It was that good.


	15. Irresistible

**_JANUARY_ **

                _The dream begins as it always does. It's dark, and cold, and the loneliness exists as a being within Castiel, breathing and writhing and completely alien, yet feeding off of Castiel's life and soul and sanity like a parasite._

 _He's in that car again, the old car that shouldn't even exist, it's so rusted and dinged up and empty. It's empty. Here Castiel sits, driving down the road in the car with its dusty, unraveling wheel, and the car is empty. Castiel is empty. Everything is so fucking_ empty _and why does it have to be like that?_

_He hears nothing but the creaking of a tree branch. And he just sees those dead feet hanging in a tree. He's afraid that if he looks back, that if he turns around, all he'll be able to see are dead, dirty feet, made white by the absence of life, made cold and stiff. He feels like he might vomit, or faint, or just die. And wouldn't that be ok? To just die?_

_That's all the dream is. Castiel drives down the road, with the smell of death beneath his nose, and everything is so dark, and so cold, and so lonely, and so empty. Him most of all._

_He wakes with a cry on his lips that cuts off the second he realizes it was all a dream. And why does a dream like that even merit a cry? It shouldn't have been scary. It wasn't a nightmare. He was driving down a road. And it shouldn't have been scary._

_But it_ was _. Because, lord help him, Castiel has never felt more empty and alone in his entire life._

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean is selfish. He's stupid, and infatuated with Castiel, but most of all, he's selfish. Because he knows that Castiel shouldn't like him. He knows that. He knows it's unhealthy for Castiel's sanity, and his own. But damn it, Dean can't just stand back and do nothing anymore.

                Castiel _kissed_ him. Castiel kissed him _first_. Why would Castiel do that if he didn't like Dean too?

                So while Dean knows that it's wrong to pursue Cas, he doesn't care. He's decided to anyway.

                Because he's selfish.

                It's Monday, the first day back to school after winter break, and Castiel is _everywhere_. Literally everywhere. Dean will come around the corner, and suddenly Castiel will just _be_ there, standing outside a classroom waiting for the bell to ring, or at a drinking fountain, or checking flyers near the main office. He's _everywhere_ , and it's borderline unbearable.

                What's even worse, though, is that, not only is Castiel _everywhere,_ but he and Dean seem to have some kind of magnetic mental psycho connection or something going on because every time Dean runs into Cas at school, Castiel happens to choose that exact moment to look up.

                They've easily locked eyes over a dozen times today. And it isn't like an accidental eye lock that ends in a split second. No, when Castiel looks at Dean, Dean _can't_ look away, and apparently neither can Cas, and they'll stand there staring at each other for five or ten seconds at a time.

                It's agonizing.

                But what hurts the most, isn't the fact that they're constantly running into each other. What hurts the most is the fact that every time Castiel sees Dean, he immediately turns and walks away in the other direction. Castiel keeps running away, before Dean has a chance to talk to him. How is Dean supposed to talk to him if Cas won't let him? How is Dean supposed to ask why Castiel kissed him? How is Dean supposed to kiss him again? _God_ he wants to kiss him again.

                It's like a game of cat and mouse, all around the halls of the school, all morning. And it sucks. And Dean is half-convinced that he needs to just give up this insane idea that maybe Castiel likes him too. If Cas keeps running away like that, how can he possibly like Dean?

                Dean is _clinging_ desperately to the reminder that Castiel _did_ kiss him first. He may have pulled away after only a few seconds, but Cas kissed him _first_. That's literally the only thought keeping Dean going right now. That's the only thought keeping him from losing his mind.

                He needs to talk to Cas.

                By the time lunch rolls around, Dean is emotionally exhausted. He wants to talk to Castiel, but even if he actually gets the chance to, what the hell is he going to say? Is he just going to confess his love? What if Castiel _doesn't_ like him back, and Dean confesses his love to him? How idiotic will Dean look then?

                Frankly, at this point, the last thing Dean's concerned about is looking idiotic. He's already done a fine job of proving his reputation true to Castiel all last semester. He _already_ looks idiotic.

                But still. Dean is selfish. He's just selfish enough to not let this go.

                He's sitting at an empty table in the cafeteria, with his back to the windows so he doesn't see Al at The Docks and ruin his appetite. Castiel is across the room at his usual spot with his friends. He's making another little origami creation, and Dean watches his nimble fingers work, daydreaming to himself how those fingers would feel doing _other_ things. He's lost in thought, and doesn't see Crowley approaching until the Brit plops down across the table from him, startling Dean.

                "So," he says, in his usual velvet whiskey accent and mischievous glint, "At this point, I see one of two options. A: you can divulge to me what's happened between you and our dear friend Alastair that's got your balls so coiled, or B: I can waltz over there and tell your little love bug Castiel just how dearly you adore him. It's your choice."

                Dean blinks and looks over at Crowley, gripping his untouched Coke tighter in his fist. "What?"

                Crowley grins. "You heard me Dean," he says, "Come on now. Why don't you share with the class? You're hurting Al's precious feelings."

                "I don't give a _fuck_ about his feelings," Dean growls immediately, and Crowley raises his eyebrows with a little smile.

                "Care to disclose why?" he asks.

                Dean fixes Crowley with his best glare, and after a moment, Crowley shrugs.

                "Alright, suit yourself," he says, beginning to rise and turning towards where Cas is seated across the cafeteria, "I'm late for an appointment with our boy Novak."

                Dean shoots his hand out and grabs hold of the lapel of Crowley's pea coat to stop him. "Wait, damn it," he snaps, "Just sit down, okay? Don't mess with Cas."

                "'Cas'?" Crowley chuckles, peeling Dean's hand off his coat and sitting back down, "What are you, buddies now?"

                "The hell does it matter to you?" Dean mutters, popping his Coke open and taking a sip.

                Crowley has the audacity to look offended. "Well, last I checked, you and I were friends. If that's changed, I'd like a signed letter of resignation."

                Dean rolls his eyes, snorting a little. "Don't worry princess, I'm not breaking up with you."

                "So then tell me what's going on with you," Crowley urges, leaning forward, "You don't sit at The Docks anymore. You don't go to Ghost Town. I can't even _breathe_ the name Alastair without your asshole unfolding. So what is it? Something's happened."

                Dean clenches his jaw, glancing over at Castiel and trying really hard not to choke when he finds those blue eyes staring back at him, watching him with Crowley. The second they lock eyes though, Castiel looks back down at his origami. Dean sighs and turns his eyes towards Crowley again. Crowley looks genuinely upset, and it makes Dean feel bad, but he just _can't_...He _can't_ hang out with Crowley if Crowley is going to be hanging out with Alastair. Dean _can't_ be in the same room as Al anymore. And he can't tell Crowley why.

                "Look," he says, "I just...need some time, okay? I can't say why, but...things have changed. And I can't just change it back."

                Crowley looks confused. "Does this have to do with the Novak boy?"

                Dean huffs a little breath. "Some of it, but mostly it's just me and my own head Crowley. I can't explain why, and I'm sorry, but...you're just gonna have to work with me on this."

                "Work with you on _what_?" Crowley groans, "You've been invisible for the better part of nearly two months now. If Alastair did something to-"

                " _Drop_ it Crowley, okay? Please, just...let it go."

                Crowley leans back a little, looking kind of angry. "We've been friends for how many years now? And you won't just give me an _inkling_ as to what's gotten into you?"

                "Please Crowley..."

                "No, you know what? This is a load of rubbish," he interrupts, "Castiel Novak is a twat, alright? Why are you letting one little measly morsel of pathetic human waste keep you from your true friends?"

                Dean glares, feeling strangely defensive of Cas. "He's not a loser," he snaps, "Look, it's not just about Cas, it's...You know what, I shouldn't even have to explain myself to you. Just fuck off."

                Crowley snorts in disgust, leaning back fully and moving to stand. "You know Dean, your assemblage of friends is wearing dangerously thin. You'd do best to remember that next time before drinking half my scotch."

                Dean takes a sip of his coke, saying nothing, gritting his teeth and staring over at Castiel as Crowley shoves himself up and heads towards the outside door leading to The Docks. Dean wants to tell him to wait, to come back and not be angry, but he wonders how much worth there is to that. How worth it is Crowley? He's always been a loyal friend, and frankly, Crowley has done nothing wrong here. This is all between Dean and Alastair. It doesn't suck to let Zach and Gordon go, because Dean has never really liked them one way or another. But Crowley is his _friend_ , and it _sucks_ to have to choose between getting to spend time with him, and puking his guts out every time Crowley invites Alastair along.

                Everything might be a lot easier if Dean just _told_ Crowley what Al did but...no. No, he won't do that. He's not going to tell anyone. Ever.

                  He glowers to himself, hunching his shoulders where he sits, listening to the door to the outside open and close, a quick tendril of cold air sliding through the cafeteria. Dean drinks his Coke slowly, his stomach too fluttery and his wallet too empty to buy any food today. He looks back over at Castiel, who is looking at him curiously. Dean watches as Cas glances out the window at Crowley walking towards The Docks, and then looks back at Dean briefly before lowering his eyes back to his origami.

                Dean is tempted to get up and walk over there to try to talk to Cas right now, but Charlie Bradbury and that kid from theatre are with him. Dean's not sure if approaching Cas while he's with his friends will merit any success at all. His friends probably think Dean is a monster, and they have every right to. In fact, _Castiel_ has every right to think Dean's a monster too, after everything Dean's done to him - leaving him in the woods overnight half-dead for starters.

                Dean sighs in frustration, draining the last of his Coke and rubbing at his cigarette-burned arm through the sleeve of his hoodie. He hasn't done laundry in a while, since he's been so distracted with Ghost Town and Castiel and being a big fat fucking emo all the time. So he was forced to borrow one of John's old hoodies this morning when he was getting dressed. It's a little big on him, and has a hole in the left armpit, but it's comfortable and warm and, most importantly, long-sleeved to hide all the Looney Tunes Band-Aid's stuck to his arm over the burns.

                Sam has been getting a little suspicious about all the missing Band-Aid's. He has an entire shoebox in the bathroom full of different themed Band-Aid's, from _Toy Story_ , to dinosaurs, to _Calvin And Hobbes_ , to even fucking _vegetables_ for Christ's sake. And Dean's been steadily working his way through them. He's going to have to go out later and buy more to replace what he's used. There's no way Sam is going to find out about why Dean needs all the Band-Aid's. There's no way. He won't let that happen.

                Crowley put Dean in a fairly shitty mood, and by the time senior lunch ends, Dean has been sitting there glowering at his table for a good twenty minutes or so, his mind running loops of everything he's done wrong to fuck up everything for everyone else. It's just kind of what Dean's brain does when he doesn't have something substantial to distract him, like talking to Sam, or stubbing out smokes on his bare skin. Castiel would be a good distraction if only Dean hadn't so royally fucked him up too.

                He pushes himself up from his table when the bell rings signaling the end of the period, glancing over at Cas and his friends getting up too and throwing their trash away. Castiel is carefully and reverently cradling his new origami creation, which looks like an owl from where Dean is. Dean actually allows a tiny smile at that. Castiel has many quirks, but the way he so gently treats every little thing he makes out of paper is just fucking adorable.

                Dean tries to make himself forget about the argument with Crowley and forget about the Looney Tunes Band-Aid's on his arm as he grabs his stuff and makes his way to math class. He stops by the bathroom first, closing himself into one of the stalls and pulling up the loose, ratty sleeve of John's hoodie. He presses down on the sticky part of all the Band-Aid's to make sure they're secure and don't fall off sometime throughout the rest of the day, and then he swallows, carefully pulling the sleeve back down and heading to class.

                His stomach rolls a little as he makes his way downstairs to The Dungeon where he and Castiel have math class together. It's simultaneously his favorite and least favorite part of the day. His favorite, because he gets to see Castiel. His least favorite, because he can't do anything about it.

                When he walks into the classroom, Cas is already in his seat in the front row, and Mr. Wyatt is at the board writing a few problems they'll be doing as warm up before the lesson begins. Something about finding the hypotenuse of a few triangles. Easy stuff for Dean. He's always been good at math.

                Dean hesitates at the door when his eyes fall upon the chair next to Castiel's. Usually there's some blonde chick sitting there, but today, it's empty. The girl must be running a little late. Everyone is still shuffling around, chatting amongst themselves, and Castiel is leaning over, digging through his belongings probably looking for a pencil.

                Dean's chest flutters with nervousness. He eyes the desk he usually sits in, and then looks back at the empty one next to Castiel.

                It doesn't take him long to decide where he's going to sit. If he waits too long, the blonde chick will get here and take the desk next to Castiel and the decision will have been made for Dean. But he's been trying to talk to Cas _all day_ , and math is one of the last classes of the day. Dean's not sure if he'll even have a chance to talk to Castiel if he sits next to him, but God help him, Dean doesn't want to be far away from Castiel anymore. He wants to be as close as possible to him.

                He takes a breath, and then grips his books a little tighter and crosses the room to the desk next to Castiel before he can talk himself out of it. Castiel straightens up from where he was digging around in his stuff just as Dean sits down in the desk and sets his books down. Cas freezes when he spots Dean two feet away sitting next to him, and they stare at each other for a second. Dean forces himself to swallow the giant lump of _fuckthisisthescariestthingI'veeverdone_ in his throat, and he smiles. It's a weak, pathetic smile, and Castiel's eyes dart to his lips when he does it.

                But before Cas can say anything (not that Dean thinks he would have), the bell rings signaling the beginning of class and Mr. Wyatt turns around, dusting off his hands of chalk and shushing everyone, waving his hands to signal for everyone to take their seats. Mr. Wyatt's eyes fall upon Dean sitting in the front row, and he looks at him quizzically, but also with a twinkle in his eye like he's happy to see Dean sitting so close to the board.

                Dean slides into the desk all the way, feeling really out of place this close to the board, and with everyone in the class behind him. But Castiel is next to him, and it's like static electricity is rolling in waves off the kid, making the hairs on Dean's arms stand up. He can't help but smirk a little when the blonde girl who usually sits in the desk where Dean is sitting now walks into the classroom a minute late and gives Dean a glare when she sees that he's taken her desk.

                As Mr. Wyatt starts up the lesson, Dean settles back in his chair, trying to look more relaxed than he feels. He usually doesn't pay much attention in class, but when he glances over, Castiel has a notebook open and he's scrawling neat, thorough notes down, writing practically every word Mr. Wyatt is saying. His notes falter when he sees Dean looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and then he shifts a little in his chair and continues to write.

                Dean suddenly feels very inferior to Cas. It's not a new feeling, obviously, but this - Castiel being an excellent student - is just another thing that makes Castiel better than Dean. A mild wave of self-loathing trickles down the back of his neck, but Dean tries to swallow it back, sitting up in his desk and opening his notebook, whipping out a pen. He sees Cas glance at him as he does it, but Dean just scrawls the date at the top of his paper in his much-shittier handwriting and forces himself to try to pay attention.

                It's impossible to pay attention when Castiel is sitting not two feet away from him though, all crystalline eyes and chocolate-black hair and perfect pale lips. Dean zones out for a few minutes just thinking about how amazing those lips felt against his at Hautley's Bend on Christmas. He only begins focusing again when Mr. Wyatt makes eye contact with him and smiles as he speaks, which makes Dean feel like he has to at least _pretend_ to be taking notes. He looks down and scribbles the first thing he hears down on his paper - something about the Pythagorean Theorem. Dean already knows it, but whatever.

                When they're halfway through math class, it feels like Dean has been sitting here for years. Every second that ticks by, his heart pumps more blood, and another goose bump prickles on his skin. He sees every single movement that Castiel makes, from the way he keeps squirming nervously in his seat, to the way he bites his pen when he's not writing with it, to the way he keeps sneaking tiny glances at Dean between the tiny glances Dean is sneaking at him.

                It's actually torture, this class period. Dean is expected to just sit here pretending to take notes when all he wants to do is reach over and grab Castiel's stupidly gorgeous face and kiss him dizzy? He's actually sweating.

                Very suddenly, Castiel raises his hand right in the middle of something Mr. Wyatt is saying. The teacher stops.

                "Yes Castiel?" he asks.

                "May I use the restroom?" Cas asks, and Dean almost smiles at how polite he sounds.

                "Sure, just grab the hall pass on your way out," Mr. Wyatt nods, before continuing to explain something that Dean's not paying attention to. Dean glances over as Castiel sets his pencil down and stands, and he can't help but watch Cas walk towards the door in his worn jeans and baggy In-N-Out Burger shirt that looks like it's seen better days. Even in clothing that's too big for him, Castiel is perfect. The lean lines of his body move like silk underwater as he walks, and Dean stares shamelessly at his ass as he grabs a hall pass and exits the room.

                Dean just stares at the door for a few seconds, blinking and swallowing hard.

                He doesn't think. He doesn't _allow_ himself to think. He just raises his hand.

                Mr. Wyatt halts his lesson again. "Dean?"

                "Bathroom?" Dean asks.

                Mr. Wyatt eyes him skeptically, but doesn't pause too long. "Hurry back," he says, "Grab a hall pass."

                Dean gives him a little smile and stands too quickly, knocking his notebook onto the floor. "Shit," he curses, and a few people in the class snicker. Dean picks up his notebook and glances at Mr. Wyatt, blushing a little. "Sorry," he says, but Mr. Wyatt just waves it off. He's one of the only teachers that doesn't seem to care when his students cuss. That's nice, Dean thinks. It's hard to filter himself in his other classes.

                He places his notebook on his desk and quickly scurries out of the room before he disrupts the lesson anymore, snatching a hall pass off the hook on the wall and slipping through the door down the hallway of The Dungeon. Castiel isn't in the hall, but there's only one bathroom down here, so Dean turns and heads that direction.

                He's about halfway to the bathroom before his brain catches up to what he's doing. _Great_. This could be taken as either super creepy, or super coincidental. Dean is pretty sure Castiel is going to take this as super creepy. But how else is Dean supposed to find a minute alone with Cas to just _talk_ to the guy when Castiel keeps avoiding him? So Dean swallows back his sudden reservations, and continues on.

                When he gets to the bathroom, he hesitates at the door briefly, _almost_ turning back and just going back to math class, but then gritting his teeth and pushing his way inside. Castiel is at the sinks, leaning over with his elbows on the counter and his face hanging over the porcelain, water dripping off the end of his nose like he just splashed his face. He blinks and glances up when Dean enters the bathroom, water dripping off his eyelashes as he looks at Dean's reflection in the mirror.

                Dean sees Castiel go rigid when he spots him, but he chooses to ignore it. If anything, at least Dean will have spoken to Castiel, even if this goes horribly wrong and Castiel tells him to never speak to him again. At least then Dean will know, and he can stop second-guessing himself and obsessing over this.

                "Hey," Dean says, and _damn it_ if that isn't the most awkward _hey_ he's ever said in his life. Castiel just looks at him for a second and then stands up straight, wiping water off his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Dean shifts uncomfortably, suddenly so nervous he could puke, but strangely giddy too, mostly because Cas is right there and every time Cas is there, it just makes Dean a little happy inside, even if it also torments him.

                He clears his throat and tries to swallow back his nerves. "Can I ask you a question?" he asks, and he has no idea what he's doing, but he's just going to wing it. What's he got to lose, right?

                Castiel sighs at the sinks. "Dean..." he says.

                "Please Cas, just...one question," Dean interjects, and he forces himself not to fiddle nervously with the hall pass in his hand. He wants to press his thumb into one of the cigarette burns to calm down a bit, but he doesn't.

                He sees Castiel's throat ripple as he swallows, and Cas looks at him in the mirror. "Okay," he agrees reluctantly. From the sound of his voice, he already knows what Dean is going to ask.

                Dean chews on his lip for a moment. "Why..." he starts, but then has to stop and swallow dryly. _God,_ does this have to be so hard? "Why did you kiss me?" he asks, and he sounds a little pathetic.

                Cas actually nods a little and sighs, but Dean can see a small blush tint his cheeks, and it makes butterflies dance in his gut. Castiel is fucking adorable when he blushes.

                He turns around and faces Dean instead of facing the mirror, wiping some remaining water droplets off his forehead with the back of his hand. "I had a bad night," he says, sniffing a little, "My parents are getting a divorce, I was upset, and I just...reacted." Dean watches Cas's lips as he speaks. What he's saying sounds rehearsed, like he's practiced it a thousand times in front of the mirror. It gives Dean a tiny bit of hope that he wants so desperately to cling to.

                "Are you sure?" he asks, and Cas looks up at him, "I mean, there's no other reason?"

                Castiel swallows again, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Dean, what are you doing?" he asks, and he sounds exhausted. But the way his fingers keep twitching makes Dean think that maybe, just maybe, Castiel is as nervous right now as Dean is.

                He stares at Cas for a moment, and then chuckles a little, shaking his head and running his hand through his hair. "I don't know," he admits, because he _doesn't_ know what he's doing. He had no idea what to expect coming in here. He's never done this. He's never felt this way before.

                "Look...what happened at Hautley's Bend was..." Castiel hesitates as he speaks, stepping forward a bit, and Dean nearly has a heart attack as Cas gets closer, before he realizes that Cas is just putting himself closer to the door behind Dean, "I'm sorry, okay? It was a mistake. Can we just forget about it?" Dean doesn't miss the disappointed slump of Cas's shoulders, or the way his blue eyes dart quickly to Dean's lips.

                Dean actually huffs a breath of disbelief. "How am I supposed to forget about it?" he asks, sounding a slight bit exasperated.

                Castiel's forehead wrinkles in confusion, and he cocks his head to the side. "What?"

                Dean pauses, hesitating, just staring at Cas. He could choose this moment, right now, to just tell Castiel the truth. To tell him that he lays awake at night staring at the Yoda mobile, thinking about the way Castiel's fingers look folding paper, or the way his tongue tasted like apples, or the way his skin makes Dean want to cry, it's so soft and beautiful. Dean could say all those things, but he's not sure he'll be able to survive Cas's reaction. He's not sure if he'll be able to just brush it off if Castiel reacts badly and laughs in his face, or storms out of the restroom and leaves Dean here in the wake of his confession.

                "Dean?" Cas asks, when Dean has stood there in silence for too long, and Dean twitches a bit, blinking and swallowing, staring into Cas's big blue eyes, trying to memorize every detail. He doesn't deserve this, but...

                Fuck it, he's going for it. God help him.

                "I like you, okay?" Dean says, "I don't know why, I just do." It's like the words are punched out of him. He says them quickly, and frustration laces every one, because he _is_ frustrated about this. Why did his stupid heart have to tear itself out of his chest and jump into the pocket of the one person he knows he can't have?

                Castiel blinks at him, and just stands there, but Dean sees the way his blue eyes widen marginally, until he looks like an adorable owl caught in the beam of a flashlight. Dean would smile if he wasn't so busy having a fucking heart attack. _He just said that out loud_. Shit. He just confessed his undying affection in front of the person to whom it belongs. He's so screwed.

                He swallows convulsively, waiting for Cas to speak, but he just stands there silently, staring at Dean.

                "Say something," Dean pleads, his voice a little breathy like he's just been running. His throat is boiling with words that he wants to say, but his gut is churning with nerves that aren't letting him speak. God, he's just made a huge mistake.

                "You like me?" Castiel finally says, after what feels like hours of just oppressive silence. His voice sounds small, and surprisingly disbelieving to Dean's ears. And is that relief on his face?

                Dean clenches his jaw. "Yeah..." he says, digging his fingernails into his palm, "I'm sorry." And he really is sorry. Cas doesn't deserve to have to deal with this shit from Dean.

                "You're sorry?" Castiel asks, cocking his head to the side again, and Dean really wishes he would stop doing that, because it's adorable and Dean can't fucking _think_ when Castiel is so adorable.

                "Yeah," he says, "I'm sorry. I know it's wrong." Dean drops his eyes for a moment, looking down at his work boots, shifting uncomfortably.

                "No, it's..." Castiel murmurs, blowing out all the breath in his lungs and taking a couple steps to the side to lean back against the wall, "It's okay." Dean looks back up at him and eyes him as Castiel reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, looking a little pale.

                "Cas?" Dean asks, moving forward a few steps in concern. Castiel looks like he might faint, or start crying, or both. Dean doesn't expect him to smile. It's a tiny smile, barely-there, and it's followed by an even tinier laugh. And then Castiel's face evens out to shock again.

                "Why me?" he asks, and his eyes turn back on Dean so suddenly, it's like Dean was slapped.

                "What?" he mumbles, trying to make his brain keep up with how confusing this conversation is.

                "Why me?" Castiel asks again, "Why do you like me?"

                Dean's eyebrows press together. "Is it that hard to believe?"

                Castiel blinks, seeming to ponder that for a moment, chewing on his lip. He looks like he's going to say something, but then hesitates, and says something else. "Well, I mean, we barely know each other," he reasons, sounding a little breathless, "Why you and me?"

                Dean thinks of all the reasons he could tell Castiel, all the reasons why he likes him. He thinks of how Castiel defends his friends, how Castiel's eyes gleam when he smiles, how his voice is like an aural aphrodisiac, how he's so sweet with his sister Anna, how he looked so fucking hot wearing that leather jacket in the winter play, how Dean can't fall asleep at night without picturing blue eyes...But he doesn't say any of those things, because which one is he supposed to choose? Cas is unlike anyone he's ever met before.

                Dean realizes as he thinks, he's been inching slowly closer to Castiel, until they're only about a foot away from each other with Cas's back pressed against the wall of the bathroom. Dean forces himself not to reach out and touch him, and he just huffs a little laugh. "You're different," he finally replies, and it's the best he can come up with to describe this feeling, why he likes Castiel so much.  

                Castiel just blinks at him, hesitating, gulping hard. Dean watches his throat ripple again as he swallows, and it's the most enticing thing he's ever seen. He just wants to lick it, but he shouldn't do that. Dean just wants to imagine for a moment that Castiel likes him back. He just wants to live in a fantasy world in his head for a minute, pretending that Cas is nervous right now because he's been thinking about Dean too. He knows it's probably not true, but Dean is only dreaming.

                Castiel's eyes flicker to the door briefly before he looks back at Dean, and Dean _almost_ leans in to kiss him when Castiel's tongue darts out to wet his dry lips. "We should probably go back," Cas says, "We'll be late."

                "So be late," Dean says, his eyes darting all over Castiel's face.

                "Dean...I don't-"

                "You don't like me?" Dean asks, interrupting, his eyes flickering back up to Castiel's, searching them. He tries not to let all the hope he's feeling show on his face, but the truth is, he's desperate for Castiel to say something positive, to like him back, to kiss him and just let everything else go.

                "If you don't like me too, you can say it Cas," Dean says, trying not to get down on his knees and beg, "It's okay."

                Castiel just looks at him, and Dean forces himself not to let his gaze wander, keeping his eyes locked with Castiel's, because he knows Cas is looking for something there, looking for the truth in Dean's words, and searching for some kind of way to work out his thoughts. Dean just lets him, and he thinks maybe, just _maybe_ , Castiel might kiss him again. He hopes for it anyway. They're only a foot apart, and Dean's lips are practically on fire with the need to kiss him. They stand there for several long, immeasurable seconds.

                Dean doesn't expect Castiel to very suddenly reel back, and throw a punch. Dean's head whips to the side as Cas's knuckles impact his jaw, and his brain takes a second or two to catch up to what just happen. Whoa, Castiel just _punched_ him. Dean never thought he'd see the day.

                The second he punches Dean though, Castiel gasped and claps a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide like he can't believe he just did that. "Oh my gosh, I-I'm so sorry!" he stammers, "Fuck, Dean, are you okay?"

                Dean works his jaw a couple times, blinking in surprise. He chuckles. The punch was impressive, actually. "See?" he snorts, "Different. I never really know what I'm gonna get."

                He barely has time to straighten up before Castiel surges forward and presses their lips together, nearly knocking Dean off-balance. It disturbs the new ache in his jaw where Cas just punched him, but Dean doesn't care. It's like his whole body just turns to putty when Castiel kisses him - it's what he's wanted ever since their first kiss at Hautley's Bend.

                Castiel practically wraps himself around Dean. His arms come up around his shoulders, one hand holding the back of Dean's head, threading through his hair, and the other gripping his upper arm. Dean's hands automatically come up to rest on Cas's sides, but he doesn't move them around to his back no matter how much he wants to. He'd done that at Hautley's Bend, and the kiss broke off right when he moved. And Dean doesn't want this to end.

                Castiel ends up with his back pressed against the wall, and he pulls Dean with him as Dean kisses him back. It's almost better than their first kiss, because there's no shock or hesitation this time, as if both of them knew that this was going to happen again someday. And that sends a thrill through Dean's chest as he pushes his tongue gently into Castiel's mouth. Cas doesn't taste like cinnamon apples this time. Frankly, he tastes like the blueberry muffins they were serving at lunch today, as well as a tinge of spearmint gum that he must be chewing.

                But it doesn't matter. Cas has a very particular taste that's been there both times, one that's just distinctly _Cas_. It's light and sweet, like white wine and dew and milk chocolate all thrown together. Dean chases the flavor, pressing into Castiel, until their chest are flush together. Dean carefully keeps himself from pressing their hips together. He's afraid if he does that, he might start grinding on the guy, and he can't do that. He doesn't want to scare Cas away, and Dean can tell that this is all sort of new to Cas, this kissing thing.   

                But it's okay, because what Castiel lacks in experience, he makes up for in desperation. Dean can feel it in the way Cas clings to him and kisses him back roughly, can feel it in the way that Castiel barely allows himself a moment to breathe, for fear that if he pulls away for one second, the kiss will end. He can feel it in the way that Castiel follows through and dips his tongue inside Dean's mouth when Dean withdraws his. He did the same thing at Hautley's Bend, and Dean can't help but groan a little as he does it, because Castiel has a dominant side that comes out when they kiss. And it turns Dean on more than anything.

                The kiss doesn't last very long, not as long as it did on Christmas. Maybe because they're both worried that someone might walk into the bathroom and discover them. Dean forces himself to pull away first, even if he doesn't want to, because he doesn't want to push this too far. His head is spinning. _Castiel likes him too_! At least, Dean thinks he does. Cas kissed him first...again. So maybe this is a good sign? Dean can't help the swell of hope that expands in his chest, can't help but smile a little breathlessly as he allows an inch or so of space between himself and Castiel so they can both open their eyes.

                Dean chuckles a little, catching his breath. "Different," he confirms, and Castiel blinks a few times, swallowing hard and trying to breath even as well.

                They stare at each other for a long moment, Cas still pressed back against the wall, and more than anything, Dean doesn't want to move. He doesn't want to go back to class. He wants to stay here in the men's room of The Dungeon, and kiss Castiel stupid until they're both so breathless they need to lay down.

                But Castiel is the one who moves first. He doesn't go to push Dean away, so Dean doesn't step back. But Cas does remove his hand from the back of Dean's head, and without breaking eye contact, he shakily raises his arm and points at something. Dean doesn't want to, but he looks away from Castiel's face for just a moment to see what he's pointing at.

                Dean's stomach drops.

                Castiel's extended fingers are just a few inches away from a fist-sized hole in the wall, and it takes all of half a second for Dean to remember what happened the last time he and Castiel were alone together in this bathroom. A brief flashback of him smashing Cas back against the wall pops into his head, and he swallows hard, closing his eyes for a second.

                "See that?" Castiel asks, and his voice is wavering a little as he catches his breath from the kiss, "Do you remember how that got there?" Even as he speaks, Cas's hand tightens on Dean's shoulder like he doesn't want to let go.

                Dean stares at the hole in the wall for a few seconds, gritting his teeth, his fingers twitching on the hand he remembers bleeding a bit when he punched it through the drywall. He huffs a small sigh, and then looks back at Cas. "Yeah," he replies, his voice tight.

                Castiel swallows, and then offers a tiny smile that only appears in his eyes. He looks almost sympathetic. "That's why I can't..." he says, not looking away from Dean as he hesitates, "I like you too." Dean's heart nearly explodes in his chest when Cas says it, but he doesn't let his expression falter. "A lot," Castiel admits, "But I just...I can't."

                Dean bites his lip, glancing at the hole in the wall again, feeling his stomach twist guiltily. He can't keep the regret out of his eyes as he looks back at Cas again, his fingers flexing a little on Castiel's sides where he's still holding onto him, memorizing the feel of his lean muscles through his baggy shirt.            

                "I'm sor-" Dean begins to say.

                "No, please, don't apologize," Castiel cuts him off, shaking his head and studying Dean's eyes, "You've changed, I can see that, but...I haven't. I need to figure my head out, okay?"

                Dean stares at him for a moment, swallowing a few times, trying to keep the disappointment and guilt off of his face. He was so close. _So close_. But he fucked it all up, once again. It's too late now. _Fuck_. He sighs a little, and nods, reluctantly taking a step back before hesitating and letting his hands drop from where he was holding onto Castiel's sides. But that little flutter of hope in his chest drives him to say, "Doesn't mean we can't be friends, right?" His voice sounds small and a little desperate, and that's embarrassing, but at this point, he doesn't care. He'll take whatever he can get.

                Castiel chuckles a little. "I can't just be friends with you," he says. Dean wonders if it's because Castiel likes him too much, or if it's because of all the horrible things Dean's done. He elects to think it's the former, because he needs that to hold onto right now.

                "We can try," he suggests weakly, giving a tiny smile, licking his lips unconsciously, still tasting Castiel there.

                Castiel looks at him for a long moment, and Dean looks back, and it feels suddenly a lot better than how it felt to lock eyes with Castiel in the halls this morning, when neither of them were sure where they stood. Even now, Dean has no idea where they stand, and he's scared to hope for more. He's scared, but he can't help it. Whatever he can get from Castiel, whatever small offering, he'll take it. He just wants to be near him, even if it means he can't kiss him and touch him. He just wants to be near him, no matter how much it hurts. Because it hurts more being away from him, as Dean discovered over Christmas break, sitting at Hautley's Bend every single day just yearning to see Castiel come walking down the block.

                Cas sighs, rubbing his forehead, blinking as he looks away from Dean. "Come on, we should head back," he says, stepping past Dean and walking over to the sinks to grab the hall pass he left there. Dean glances down and realizes he dropped his own hall pass sometime during the kiss, and stoops to pick it up.

                When he straightens up, Castiel is already walking towards the door, straightening out his shirt that got rumpled during the kiss. He glances back at Dean and asks, "Are you coming?"

                Dean swallows and tries not to faint with every time Castiel speaks. His voice is like liquid sex. "You go first," he says, figuring Mr. Wyatt would grow suspicious if both of them returned to the classroom at the same time.

                Cas gives him a grateful look, and his eyes flicker to the hole in the wall briefly before settling on Dean again. He eyes his jaw. "I'm sorry I punched you," he says earnestly, and Dean reaches up, touching his fingers to the tender spot on his jaw. He's going to wear that bruise like a fucking trophy.

                He shakes his head. "I earned it," he says, and the corner of Cas's mouth twitches up briefly before he hesitates and exits the bathroom.

                Dean just stands there for a moment, staring at the door, halfway wishing Cas would walk back in and kiss him again. He's quickly becoming addicted to Cas's lips, and that's probably not a good thing based on the conclusions they just drew in their conversation.

                Dean sighs and wanders over to the mirror, looking at himself. There's a faint red bruise beginning to form on his jaw where Castiel punched him, and Dean prods at it gently. He hopes it gets dark. He hopes it stays there for a couple weeks. He'd be proud to carry around a bruise from Castiel's fist. His lips are swollen and slick from the kiss, and he licks them again before running a hand through his hair and sighing.

                He's not sure how that went, whether it was good or bad, but he's just going to cling to the good for now. He wanders back to math class, and Mr. Wyatt shoots him a look when he walks back in. He's been gone for nearly ten minutes. He lowers his eyes, flushing a little, and slips back into his seat next to Castiel.

                He sees Cas blushing a little out of the corner of his eye, and Dean tries his best not smile, glancing over. Cas returns his look for a brief moment, and then they both look back down at their own papers, listening to Mr. Wyatt's voice drone on. Neither of them really have any idea what he's talking about at this point.

 

*       *       *

 

                When Dean walks into his house that night, it's quiet and dark. Dean had stopped at the gas station to buy a carton of cigarettes, and then made a run to the grocery store before coming home, because the house had no food in it this morning, and Dean knows for damn sure that John didn't go out and buy anything to eat today. He can't even find it in himself to be mad about it though, because he's too dazed about what happened with Castiel today in the bathroom. Dean's spent every waking minute since wishing he could kiss Cas again. His mouth is addicting.

                Dean plops the groceries on the counter in the kitchen, not bothering to unpack them yet. Nothing in there is perishable anyway - Dean buys the cheap, processed crap that's bound to kill them sooner. But he can't afford any better.

                "Sammy?" he calls out, just like he always does, but there's no reply. His eyebrows press together and he heads down the hall, pushing Sam's door open. His light is on but he's not in there. Dean walks to his own room and drops his backpack on the floor, and then checks the bathroom. Sam isn't there either. As he's passing by John's room, he hears a rustling noise, and pushes the door open.

                Sam is there on the floor near the closet, sifting through shoeboxes of papers that John keeps stuffed behind his boots and jackets. "Sam, what are you doing?" Dean asks, glancing down the hall briefly, half-expecting John to just be standing there. If John knew that Sam was going through his things, he'd be livid.

                "Looking at this stuff," Sam replies distractedly while reading over a slip of paper.

                Dean rolls his eyes, coming into the room and stepping over piles of dirty laundry and empty beer bottles to get to Sam. "Yes, I can see that," he snorts, "Why are you in here? You know dad would be pissed if he found you in here."

                Sam finishes what he's reading, and tucks the paper away, reaching for another one. "He left like an hour ago for The Roadhouse. He's not gonna be back for a while."

                Dean plops down next to Sam and peers over his shoulder at what he's looking at. It's some letter in messy handwriting that looks a lot like his dad's. Dean lets his eyes scan over the piles of papers and pictures on the floor, and his throat tightens up a little when he sees a picture of his mom laying amongst the open shoeboxes. He reaches out and picks it up, handling it reverently, keeping his fingertips carefully towards the edges so he doesn't ruin the already-faded photograph.

                His mother smiles out at him, holding a half-eaten burrito and laughing about something. Probably something John said while he was taking the picture. His mother looks young here - it was likely taken before Dean was born.

                "Is this all of mom's stuff?" he asks Sam, swallowing back the lump in his throat and reaching for another picture. This one is of both his parents in college, laying in the quad near their dorms with sunglasses on and books open on their stomachs.

                "Mrs. Chandler gave us this semester-long project today in history class," Sam finally explains, tucking the most recent paper away, "We have to create a timeline of our lineage or something like that. I'm just trying to see what I can dig up on grandma and grandpa Campbell."

                Dean chews on his lip as he picks up a third picture, this one of his parent's wedding day. There's a candle or something sitting behind his mother in the picture, the flame right behind her hair, and it almost looks like her hair is on fire. Dean smells burning hairspray in the back of his nose, but he sniffs and drops the picture, looking over at Sam.

                "Well I could tell you what I know about them," he says, "But you're probably not gonna find anything about mom's parents in here. This is really all just mom and dad's stuff."

                Sam shrugs. "I've found a few things, but mostly it's just pictures and letters. Dad wrote a bunch of letters to mom one summer in college when they were apart for like three months."

                Dean rolls his eyes, reaching over and grabbing a handful of the letters out of Sam's hand. "You shouldn't read those. They're personal."

                Sam snorts. "Dad used to be all fluffy and romantic," he says, nodding towards the letters, "Some of them are downright nauseating."

                Dean looks at the letters, but he can only bring himself to read _Dear Mary_ before he drops them to the side. Sam reaches for something else in the box closest to him, pulling out a pile of photos that look like Mary's baby pictures. "How far back in our ancestry does the project have to go?" Dean asks, and Sam shrugs.

                "The further back we can dig up stuff on our family, the more points we get. It's more of an extra credit thing," he replies, "Did you ever meet grandma and grandpa?"

                Dean eyes a school photo of Mary Winchester as a kid in Sam's hands, and he swallows again, shrugging. "I met grandpa once, but it was a really long time ago, and he was kind of a dick to be honest. That's all I can remember."

                Sam snorts. "Great, thanks for all the help," he drawls sarcastically, and Dean shoves his head, chuckling.

                "His first name was Samuel," he points out, "You were named after him, you know. You probably take after him in the asshole department."

                "At least I wasn't named after a lady," Sam shoots back, holding up a piece of paper. It looks like a birth certificate or something, and it has _Samuel and Deanna Campbell_ written across the top. Dean rolls his eyes and snatches the paper away, studying it.

                "What about on dad's side?" Sam asks, "You ever meet his parents?"

                Dean shakes his head as he reads. "The only thing I know is that grandma's name was Millie and grandpa's was Henry. But I think dad's father left when he was like four or something, and never came back."

                Sam looks up in surprise. "Oh..." he says, "Hm, maybe that's why dad's never around."

                Dean grits his teeth and rolls his eyes, tossing the paper aside. "Any more questions, hot shot? Or can we put this shit away and go have some dinner?"

                Sam reaches for another piece of paper. "I wanna look a little longer," he says, "I don't really know anything about our family."

                Dean runs his tongue over his teeth. "Well, you know a lot about me, and I'm the only one that matters," he teases, letting his eyes wander over the piles of pictures and papers. He reaches for the one shoebox that Sam hasn't opened yet and peels off the lid. Inside, there's a manila folder, and Dean pulls it out. Underneath are more pictures and a few small objects. Dean grabs a ring box that he spots in the corner, opening it, and he has to force himself not to choke when he finds Mary Winchester's wedding ring inside.

                She was wearing it the day she burned in the car. The metal has a few strange marks on it, probably from the fire, but other than that, it's looks almost the same as the last time Dean saw it. He closed the lid of the ring box forcefully, before he can do something stupid like vomit. Sam glances at him when he does, but Dean schools his face and sets the ring box aside, picking up the manila folder he pulled out.

                "Tell me if you find anything I could use," Sam says when he sees Dean open the folder, and then turns back to whatever he's sifting through.

                Dean is confused at first when he starts reading what's in the folder. There are just a bunch of random descriptions of something, and statements from different people that don't make much sense to him. But then he turns the page, and his stomach twists violently. There are pictures of the burned out shell of Mary's car after The Accident. They're old pictures, and a little blurry, but there's no mistaking what they are.

                Dean swallows hard, glancing over at Sam where he's still busy, distracted with a pile of certificates or something. Dean flips to the next page, and there are more pictures of Mary's burned car from different angles. Dean keeps flipping, and stops when he sees a picture of himself.

                He has to scoot over and lean back against the wall as he grows lightheaded, and Sam glances up at him questioningly before looking back down at whatever he's reading. Dean swallows convulsively as he looks at the pictures. There are almost a dozen pictures of himself. One of them is a picture of Dean right next to the burnt shell of Mary's car, strapped to a stretcher with paramedics around him. One of the paramedics is holding an infant Sam, wrapped in a blanket, and Dean is staring at him.

                The next picture is of Dean in the hospital with his side where he was burned wrapped in white bandages. Dean ignores the phantom pains that flare up in his scars when he looks at the pictures. Each picture following that one are progressive shots of his healing process. In each one, he has a few less bandages on, until there's one picture of the burns fully healed and unwrapped. In the picture, the scars are angry and red, but over the years, they've faded to silvery-white marred skin that stretch across his side and down his leg.

                Dean bites his lip and turns the page again, and finds an obituary for Mary Winchester cut out of the newspaper. It says the usual bullshit about how she was a great person who did great things and will be loved and missed. It's all true, but it's so generic, it actually pisses Dean off. His hands are shaking a little as he closes the folder and tosses it back in the box he got it out of.

                "Find anything?" Sam asks, reaching for the folder, and Dean reaches a sweaty hand out, grabbing Sam's wrist before he can take the folder.

                "There's nothing useful in there," he says, pulling the box away from Sam and putting the lid back on it. Sam eyes him, but then just shrugs and goes back to what he's reading.

                Dean stands and stuffs the box with the manila folder in it back behind his father's cowboy boots in the closet that he hasn't worn since Dean was an infant. He sees Sam glance at the box as he turns back around and starts gathering up the papers. "Come on," Dean says, closing a couple more boxes, "Let's go have dinner. You have all semester to do this project and I'm starving."

                Sam sighs and gathers whatever he can reach and stuffs it back into the boxes, and together the two of them put all the boxes back where they were in the closet, closing it gently and leaving the room the way they found it. Dean tries to swallow back the sick feeling in his stomach and massages the heel of his hand into his scars as they make their way down the hall to the kitchen.

                "Hey Dean?" Sam asks.

                "Yeah?"

                Sam eyes him. "You don't have to tonight, but sometime can you tell me more about mom?" he asks, "I tried asking dad once, but he got really mad, so I don't really know anything about her."

                Dean swallows as they walk into the kitchen and head to the island counter, sifting through the grocery bags Dean left there. "Yeah, some other time," he promises, and leaves it at that.

                Sam helps him whip up a couple cans of Spaghetti-O's for dinner, and they sit at the counter to eat them, since John broke the kitchen table the same night he broke all the dishes in the kitchen, and he still hasn't gone out to get a new one. Sam brings up Castiel, since he can see that Dean is suddenly not in a very good mood, and Dean smiles. Talking about Cas always makes him feel better.

                He tells Sam that they kissed today, but doesn't tell him anything else, and Sam tells Dean about how things are going with Jess. They've been on couple more dates since their first one, and Sam says he might ask her to be his girlfriend. Dean calls him a stud, and they chuckle, finishing their food and washing their bowls in the sink.

                Sam heads to his room to do his the rest of his homework, and Dean wanders outside to have a cigarette. He hoists himself up on the trash cans beside the house and climbs onto the roof, going to sit down against the chimney. Like every time he smokes now, his first thought is whether or not he's going to burn himself again. It's almost daily now that he burns himself, and his arm is running out of space for burns. But he wants to keep it contained to that one arm. He doesn't know why. Maybe it's because if he just keeps it to that one arm, he can convince himself that it's not that big of a problem and he has it under control.

                He rolls up his sleeve, eyeing the Looney Tunes Band-Aid's still stuck there over some of the more recent burns. He's torn. He had an amazing, mind-fucking day today at school with Castiel, but then he came home and had his memory clawed through with the boxes of Mary's stuff in John's room. He _wants_ to burn himself, but he doesn't know if he should. He feels a little sick from seeing those pictures in John's room, but he's not panicking right now, and he's not necessarily depressed.

                But he _wants_ to. Because burning himself is like a hobby now.

                He stares at the inside of his forearm for a long time, picking out a spot with his eyes that would be a good place to burn. He takes several long drags on his cigarette, shivering in the cold, just staring at his arm, fighting with himself.

                Aw, fuck it. Why not, right?

                Dean plucks his cigarette out of his mouth and presses the tip of it to his unmarred flesh without hesitation. It's gotten a lot easier to just _do_ it now, without pause. He has an oozing scab on his palm still from the burn he'd given himself there last week, but he's found that if he keeps his hand curled up, people don't notice the mark. He bumped it more times than he can count at school today, but he just gritted his teeth and ignored it.

                He stares almost passively at the cigarette pressed to his skin as he feels that familiar explosion of pain roll up his arm. He clenches his jaw and waits it out, waits until the glowing tip of the cigarette snuffs itself on his skin. Eventually, the red flickers out and dies, and Dean swallows hard, his hands shaking as he pulls the cigarette away from his freshly burned skin, waiting for the rush.

                He leans back against the chimney and closes his eyes as he grows a little lightheaded and giddy from the endorphins, but the feeling passes quickly. And when it does, he suddenly feels incredibly low. Usually when he burns himself, he feels low like this _before_ the fact. But right now, he's feeling like shit _after_ he hurt himself. What the fuck? Usually it doesn't happen like this.

                He was in a relatively good, if conflicted, mood all day today. Now he feels kind of pathetic. Maybe because he didn't feel like his day could be complete without putting out at least _one_ cigarette on his arm.

                He shakes his head, shoving himself to his feet and throwing the cigarette butt aside, cradling his burned arm against his chest and wandering off the roof, climbing down and heading inside. He feels kind of idiotic. He feel like such a fucking _emo_. It's like he's a pain junkie or something. He can't go _one_ day without hurting himself? It's actually fucking pathetic.

                He walks into his house in a much worse mood than when he left, and heads to the bathroom, calling out to Sam that he's taking a shower. He hisses when he slips under the spray, the hot water sliding over his cigarette burns, all in various stages of healing. He stares down at them in disgust. His arm is beginning to look like he has a really fucking serious case of the chicken pox.

                He scrubs his hair clean and tries to think about Castiel. He's not sure where they stand, or what's going to happen now. Dean fully intends on trying to be friends with the guy, if nothing else, even if he doesn't deserve it at all. But right now, he's just going to focus on how wonderful their second kiss was in the bathroom today. Because those thoughts make him feel happy, and right now he's really fucking tired of feeling sad and angry and worthless.

                He leaves his fresh burns open on his arm for the night, slipping to his room and pulling on a pair of fresh boxers. He walks down the hall to Sam's room and wanders in, hiding his injured arm behind his back as he goes up and ruffles Sam's hair at his desk, telling him goodnight even though it's only about half past eight right now. Dean is drained, and he thinks maybe if he just lays down, he'll be able to relax.

                Sam eyes him weirdly but says goodnight, and Dean wanders back to his own room, flopping down on his mattress and watching the shadows of the little Yoda's dance in the light of the streetlamp outside. He lays there for a while just thinking, but he tries to keep the thoughts safe. Mostly they're just thoughts of Castiel. If Dean thinks about anything else - namely, the pictures he saw in John's room tonight - he won't be able to sleep because of the phantom pains.

                When he finally falls asleep though, his brain doesn't seem to want to let him escape from himself.

                He dreams of fire. He dreams of burning drops of skin peeling from his body. He dreams of a screaming infant, and he smells burning hairspray. He hears the gusting wind sound of fire eating through metal, and he looks up through all the flames to see Castiel standing there on the other side, reaching for him to pull him from the wreckage. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_ so _fucking_ badly.

                Dean wakes with a wild gasp, shooting up in his bed, his entire side on fire with pain. But when he looks down, clawing at his scars, there are no flames there, only memories. He can hear Sam playing shitty country music through the wall, and Dean takes several long, deep, gasping breaths, groaning at the ache in his side.

                _Fuck_.

                All he wants is to just forget. Can't he just do that? Can't he just forget about The Accident, and Alastair, and all the doubts he knows Castiel has about him? Can't he just forget? Dean's brain is at war with him, and all he wants is for it to just shut the fuck up every once in a while.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel blows into his hands to warm them as he crosses the street the next afternoon and pushes his way inside Bobby's shop. He's just a couple minutes early for his shift, but he had nothing else to do but obsess over Dean at his house, so he came here.

                His coworker Adam is still sitting at the front desk when Cas walks to the back of the shop, and he looks up when he hears Castiel coming. "Oh hey man," Adam greets, "I sold like three of your mobiles tonight. They're really awesome, good job."

                Castiel smiles a little at him. "Thank you Adam," he nods, coming behind the desk and dropping his backpack on the floor.

                "Castiel, that you?" he hears Bobby call out from behind the Japanese curtain.

                "Yeah, it's me," he calls back, "I'm just a little early."

                "Ah, it's fine," Bobby replies, "Adam, you can hit the road."

                Adam grins up at Cas. "Thanks Bobby!" he calls, gathering up his stuff. He gives Cas a companionable slap on the back, and then rounds the desk, walking out of the store quickly. The bell chimes as he leaves, and Castiel sighs, taking a seat behind the desk as Bobby comes out from behind the curtain.

                He hands Castiel his paycheck, and Cas nods in thanks. "You might wanna make more a those turtles," Bobby suggests with a little twinkle in his eye, "Those and the angel mobiles sell like hot cakes."

                Cas quirks a little smile. "Sounds good."

                Bobby nods and turns, heading into the back again through the curtain. Castiel reaches down and pulls out a stack of new paper, getting to work folding up whatever he can in the next four hours.

                It's no more than thirty minutes later when he hears the bell over the door chime again, and heavy footsteps enter, and he just _knows_ it's Dean. He's memorized the sound of his work boots, the way he sniffs sometimes, or clears his throat. And Castiel's heart flips in his chest. He keeps his eyes down, because he doesn't want to seem over-eager, but he can't help it.

                _Dean Winchester likes him!_ He'd just come out and _said_ it in the bathroom yesterday. Cas's mind is still trying to process that. He's been thinking about it nonstop since it happened. Today at school, he'd done everything in his power _not_ to stare at Dean when he felt Dean staring at him in the cafeteria and in math class. He _wants_ to stare at Dean, and now that he knows Dean likes him back, he wants to flirt and kiss and do everything with him. But he _can't_ , and he made that clear to Dean too.

                Castiel's head is still all jumbled. He knows it would be wrong to be with Dean after everything Dean has done to him. But it feels so _right_. Cas wants to follow his heart when he should really be following his brain. So he's torn. He's struggling. He doesn't know what to do.

                And Dean showing up at his work tonight really doesn't help.

                Cas looks up as Dean steps up in front of the counter and leans on his elbows over Cas's work. "More origami?" he asks, trying to sound casual. But just like yesterday in the bathroom, Castiel can tell that Dean is a little nervous, as is Cas.

                "Angels," he confirms, looking at Dean. He and Dean lock eyes for a few seconds, but their faces are very close, so Castiel breaks the stare before he does something stupid like kiss Dean right in the middle of his workplace. "You shouldn't be here Dean."

                Dean shrugs, straightening up and walking around the counter. "I came to talk to Bobby," he says with a little smile, but Castiel knows that's not completely true. Nevertheless, he can't help but smile back at Dean before Dean pushes his way through the Japanese curtain and Castiel listens to he and Bobby start talking. He doesn't really pay attention to what they're saying, just listens to the sound of Dean's voice and tries desperately not to pop an inappropriate boner.

                They're back there for a good hour or so just chatting away, and Castiel manages to fold up seven little origami angels by the time Dean pushes his way back out from behind the curtain. He doesn't immediately round the counter and leave like Castiel thinks he's going to do though. Instead, Dean grabs the other stool behind the counter, and pulls it up, sitting down next to Castiel.

                Cas looks over at him, and the desk is small, so they're sitting really close to each other, Dean's knee brushing his under the desk. Behind the curtain, he can hear Bobby talking, and he realizes he's on the phone with Rufus again, which means he'll be arguing for a while. Castiel swallows hard. "What are you doing?" he asks.

                Dean doesn't seem to know the answer to that, but his eyes wander over Castiel's face, and a few seconds later, he nods towards the paper in Cas's hands. "Will you teach me?" he asks.

                Cas glances down at the angels he's already folded. "You want to learn origami?"

                Dean shrugs, and picks up a fresh piece of paper from in front of Cas. Their fingers brush, and Castiel has to force himself not to shiver. "Sure," Dean says, "Friends do that kind of stuff, right? Teach each other things?"

                Cas sighs, but can't stop the flutter in his stomach. "Dean, I can't be your friend. I told you that," he says, although he hates every single words as it comes out of his mouth. He wants nothing more than to just be with Dean 24/7, but he can't.              

                "Then pretend I'm a customer," Dean suggests, "You know? I'm just some guy who came in and asked you to teach me something simple."

                Castiel looks back over at him. "You're not just some guy," he says softly, his eyes flickering over Dean's face. Dean doesn't seem to know what to say to that, so he says nothing, staring back at Castiel. Cas's eyes fall upon the fairly sizeable bruise adorning Dean's jaw, and he reaches up before he even thinks, taking Dean's chin in his hand and turning his head just slightly to get a better look at the bruise. It's right where Castiel punched Dean yesterday in the bathroom. He feels a stab of guilt in his stomach.

                "I'm sorry I hit you," he says, looking into Dean's eyes earnestly. This is exactly why he doesn't like to hurt people. This feeling of guilt and remorse is horrible, and it eats at him.

                Dean shrugs. "I deserved it," he says, and Castiel notices Dean leaning a little bit into Cas's touch. Dean's skin is warm and scratchy with day-old stubble. Castiel swallows and has to force himself to let go of Dean's face before he gives in to the urge to kiss him again. Bobby is right behind that curtain arguing into the phone. It would be inappropriate to kiss Dean here. It would be inappropriate to kiss Dean anywhere.

                Cas clears his throat and looks back down. "So are you gonna teach me?" Dean asks, and Castiel plucks at the papers in front of him before sighing and picking one up.

                "Fold this corner in like this," he instructs, holding his paper out and showing Dean.

                He sees Dean smile a tiny bit out of the corner of his eye, and then Dean folds his paper the same way. Cas walks him through each separate fold, sometimes reaching over and folding a certain piece for Dean if he can't fold it correctly. Their fingers keep brushing together and their shoulder keep bumping, and it's fucking _torture_ not to just lean over and kiss him. Castiel has no doubts now that Dean would kiss him back in an instant. He made it pretty clear that he likes Castiel in the bathroom yesterday.

                But Cas can't. He won't. He won't give in to this. It's unhealthy and so, so wrong. But it feels so _good_ to be sitting here with Dean, to smell the strange mixture of cigarette smoke and cologne wafting off of him, to see the bursting shades of green in his eyes up close, to hear the gruff purr of his voice as he speaks at a low volume sitting this close to Castiel.

                By the time Dean has what could pass as a professionally made origami angel in his hands, Castiel is sweating and trying desperately to ignore his half-hard dick. This is his own personal heaven and hell combined into a massive cluster-fuck of a situation.

                As much as he wants to, he really can't allow this to go on. Cas slumps in frustration as he watches Dean's strong, scarred-up hands delicately playing with the little angel he just folded, and a small smile quirks the corner of his full lips. "That wasn't as hard as I thought it was gonna be," Dean says.

                Castiel can't help but feel his heart soften at the sight of Dean so happy about something so small, but he forces himself to ignore the weak-in-the-knees sensation taking over his body. He swallows. "You should probably go Dean," he says softly, "You shouldn't be here."

                Dean nods a bit like he knows that already and looks over at Castiel. "I can't stop thinking about you," he admits, "That's probably stupid, but I can't stop."

                Cas looks at him for a moment, just memorizing every detail of his face. _God_ he wants to kiss him. "I can't stop thinking about you either," Castiel confesses, and there's a little twinkle in Dean's eye like that pleases him, "Which is why you can't be here."

                Dean looks at him for another second and then swallows, looking back down at the angel in his hands. His forehead creases a little, and he looks regretful. "I'm so sorry for everything Cas," he says, and Castiel shakes his head.

                "Please don't apologize," he says, "I just need some time to figure things out. I don't want you to apologize."

                The corners of Dean's jaw bulge as he clenches his teeth, and then he looks back up at Castiel again. They stare at each other for several long seconds, and Dean's eyes flicker to Castiel's lips. Then, hesitantly, he leans forward.

                Castiel told himself he wouldn't kiss Dean at work, but Dean is kissing _him_ , so technically he's not breaking his own rules, right? He doesn't move as Dean presses their lips together, and it's shockingly gentle. It lasts for no more than three seconds, just a soft, lingering peck, and then Dean pulls away and sighs. "I'll go," he says quietly, giving Castiel a small, somewhat sad smile before standing and heading around the counter.

                "Where do you want me to leave this?" Dean asks, holding up the little angel he folded. Castiel shakes his head.

                "Keep it," he replies, "It's yours, you made it."

                Dean smiles at him again and fiddles with the angel in his hands briefly, glancing down at it and then back up at Castiel before turning without another word and exiting the shop. Castiel watches after him until he disappears around the corner, and then he blows out all the breath in his lungs. His lips are on _fire_ and he's fully hard in his pants. _God_ this is the most unbearable, impossible thing he's ever had to deal with in his life. His senses are battling his memories. He's comparing in his head the memory of Dean's fists impacting his face, with the memory of Dean's lips ghosting softly over his.

                It's borderline agonizing.

                He hears a chuckle behind himself and whips his head around, finding Bobby standing outside the curtain, leaning one shoulder against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest. Castiel blushes furiously when he realizes Bobby probably just saw all of that through the curtain.

                " _Not friends_ my old behind," he teases with a chuckle, and comes forward, patting Castiel on the back, "Just don't hurt that boy, you hear?"

                Castiel swallows and looks up at Bobby, forcing himself to smile. "I'll do what I can," he replies, almost laughing at the irony of Bobby's statement.

                He spends the next couple hours of his shift in a daze, folding angel after angel, building a couple more mobiles before Bobby sends him home. He leaves the shop and crosses the street to his bike locked to the lamppost, climbing on and kicking off the curb to start his bike rolling.

                He lets the icy cold night air wash over his too-hot face, trying to ignore his trapped erection in his jeans, and the feeling of electricity on his lips. He already knows he's going to dream of green eyes and scarred hands and a velvet-gravel voice whispering things Castiel really shouldn't be thinking about in his ear.

                God help him, his heart is hopelessly lost.


	16. Shots

                "You hear about the party?" Gabriel asks, jolting Castiel out of his daydreams as he plops down in front of him at lunch a few days later. Cas blinks and looks over at his friend.

                "What?" Castiel asks, looking away from where he was staring at Dean across the cafeteria. He's spent the entire past few days just staring at Dean, and sometimes Dean stares back, and it's damn near fucking impossible not to walk up to him every time and just kiss him. Right now Dean is over buying a rubbery-looking cheeseburger from the overweight lunch lady, juggling his tray as he tries to dig around in his pocket for a spare quarter.

                Gabe snorts, glancing over at Dean and then looking back at Cas. "You're hopeless bro," he says, "What ever happened to Project FAD?"

                Castiel sighs and looks down at the origami tulip in his hands, fiddling with it. "I tore it up," he admits, glancing sheepishly at Gabe.

                "What? Why?" Gabriel asks.

                Cas shrugs, restraining himself from looking over at Dean again as he sees him start walking across the cafeteria out of the corner of his eye. "I don't know," he replies, "I just did."

                Gabe narrows his eyes at Castiel, leaning forward and stealing a fruit snack off of Cas's lunch tray. "Something going on with you two?" he asks, nodding towards Dean, "I've seen you making goo-goo eyes at each other lately. Cupid finally come to town?"

                Castiel rolls his eyes, sighing and dropping his tulip, popping an orange-shaped gummy into his mouth. "You said something about a party?" he asks, changing the subject, and Gabe snorts, shaking his head.

                "You know where Johnson State College is?" he asks, stealing another fruit snack from Castiel's tray. Castiel grabs the rest of the fruit snacks off his tray and sets them in front of Gabriel, and Gabe grins at him in thanks.

                "I'm assuming it's in Johnson," Castiel replies.

                Gabe rolls his eyes. "Alright smart ass," he chuckles, talking through a mouthful of gummies, "Well there's this really rich chick that goes there, Bela Talbot, and she lives with her parents on the outskirts of Johnson in this like _massive_ mansion with a swimming pool and elevators and like _eight-thousand_ gargoyles all over the place."

                "What about her?" Castiel asks, sneaking a glance over at Dean as he sits down at a table near the middle of the room. As he sits down, the group of students already sitting there stand up and immediately move to a different table. Castiel almost laughs - everyone is scared of Dean. Even too scared to sit at the same table as him.

                "Her parents are going out of town, so she's throwing a huge party at the _Talbot Manor_ ," Gabe says, doing air-quotes, "It's tomorrow night. We should go."

                Cas looks at him. "Why would we go to a party we weren't invited to?"

                Gabe snorts. " _Everyone_ was invited. Literally everyone is going, from Johnson State and from here. I know some people from Stowe that are going too. The entire state of Vermont pretty much is gonna be there."

                Castiel raises his eyebrows, impressed. "How big is this girl's house?"

                Gabe chuckles. "I've only been there once for a party Bela threw like three years ago, and this place is _huge_. It's like a hotel. Something like sixteen bedrooms and twenty-two baths or something."

                "Wow," Castiel breathes, "Why do they need such a huge house?"

                Gabriel snorts. "Who _wouldn't_ want to live in a house like that? Think of how many strippers you could afford."

                Castiel rolls his eyes, trying not to blush as he sees Dean staring at him out of the corner of his eye. "What time is the party?"

                "Tomorrow night at eight I think, but I'll have to double check," Gabe replies, stuffing the rest of the fruit snacks into his mouth, "Johnson is like 45 minutes away, so we'll probably meet up at your house around seven and just head out from there."

                "How are we getting there?" Castiel asks distractedly, glancing over at Dean and locking eyes with him before blushing  and looking away, smiling a little. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean smirk through a bite of cheeseburger.

                "My brother is driving us," Gabe replies, "I was gonna borrow his car, but I wanna drink. And you're drinking too, just by the way."

                Castiel looks up at him. "I am, am I?"

                "Mm-hmm," Gabe nods, digging into what looks like tapioca on his own lunch tray, "Everyone is drinking. That's what you do at parties."

                Charlie and Dorothy come wandering up then with trays full of food. Charlie plunks down next to Cas, and Dorothy next to Gabe. "What's up?" Charlie asks, "Gabe, did you tell Cas about Talbot's party?"

                Gabe grins. "He's coming. Right Cas?"

                Castiel glances at Charlie and gives her a small smile. "I'm coming."

                Charlie cheers and hugs him awkwardly from the side. "It's gonna be so much fun! Bela throws these parties like every year, and someone always ends up getting arrested." She eyes Gabriel pointedly, and he sticks his tongue out at her before going back to shoveling tapioca into his mouth.

                Castiel chuckles, unfolding and refolding one of the petals on his little origami tulip. He's never been to a party before, not even when he was a little kid and other kid's parents invited everyone in their child's class. He's never thrown a party either. The only things he knows about parties are what he sees in movies and reads in books. He's a little nervous, but he has Gabriel and Charlie there, and probably Dorothy and Kevin, so he thinks he'll be okay.

                Castiel spends the rest of lunch listening to Charlie and Gabe reminisce over what kinds of crazy things have happened at parties in years past at Bela Talbot's mansion in Johnson. He hears something about naked yoga, and something else about a stray dog, but he mostly just sits there daydreaming. He wonders if Dean is going to the party. Gabriel had said that everyone in Rail Pass _and_ in Johnson are going, so maybe...

                Cas has been back and forth in his head lately, fighting with himself, wondering whether it would _really_ be such a bad thing to be friends with Dean. He knows it would be impossible to _just_ be friends, but maybe they could try? Or, even just acquaintances (who occasionally make out in The Dungeon bathroom). Castiel can't help but smile sometimes at Dean, and Dean has begun to sit next to Cas every day in math.

                It's led to Castiel jerking off every single night - sometimes twice - but he doesn't want it to stop, because every time Dean is close to him, it's like he's drugged with happiness. Dean is like a drug. Cas is addicted, he can't stop, and he doesn't _want_ to stop.

                What could it hurt to just talk to Dean sometimes? Maybe Dean will be at Bela's party, and they can just say _hello_ to each other and leave it at that.

                Castiel knows he's kidding himself if he thinks that he and Dean can just be friends and nothing more, but maybe they can at least _try_?

                When lunch ends, Castiel gathers up his stuff, glancing out the window at The Docks and wincing when he sees Alastair flicking the butt of a cigarette at some freshman kid walking by. He shivers as he remembers the day Al lit his coat on fire, and swallows hard, rubbing his arm where the small burn has healed.

                Gabe pats him on the back on the way out of the cafeteria. "Seven o' clock bro," he grins, "Don't forget."

                Castiel nods at him and hugs his books to his chest, making his way down the stairs to The Dungeon to math class. He's one of the first ones there, as usual, and he takes his seat in the front of the room. Dean wanders in no more than a minute later, and Castiel glances up and smiles at him. Dean smiles back and sits down in the desk next to Cas's, pulling out his notebook and flipping it open.

                Castiel watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean scribbles the date at the top of his paper. Dean's handwriting is charming. It's blocky and a bit messy, and sometimes his capital B's don't connect at the bottom and look like an open paperclip. It's kind of sad that Castiel knows so much about Dean's handwriting, but he can't help it. He can't help but just stare at Dean's scarred up hands sometimes in class when he scrawls down notes from Mr. Wyatt's lessons. Castiel writes in cursive, and it's neat, but Dean's handwriting has character.

                He realizes he's zoning out staring at Dean's hands, and he blinks a few times as the bell rings, signaling the beginning of class. He scribbles down the date on his own paper and looks up as Mr. Wyatt turns around to start the lesson.

                They're a few minutes into another agonizing hour of math when Dean tears a corner off of the paper in his notebook. He scribbles something onto the scrap piece of paper, and then folds it up, waiting until Mr. Wyatt turns to write something else on the board before reaching over and dropping the folded paper on Castiel's desk.

                Cas looks down at the paper and then glances over at Dean, but Dean is already looking ahead at Mr. Wyatt again, a little smile touching the corners of his mouth. Castiel swallows and picks up the folded note, ignoring the electric tingle in his fingers that he feels with the knowledge that Dean was just touching this same piece of paper. He hides it in his lap as he unfolds it so Mr. Wyatt doesn't see, then lays it out flat on his desk to read it.

                **_You going to the party in Johnson tomorrow?_**  the note reads in Dean's messy scrawl.

                Castiel feels a little flutter in his stomach, and he picks up his pen, his palms sweating a little like they do _every_ time he has any interaction whatsoever with Dean.

                He writes **_Yes._** underneath Dean's message, and folds the note back up, waiting until Mr. Wyatt turns his back before setting it on Dean's desk. He watches Dean out of the corner of his eye pick the note up and unfold it, and then a tiny smile curls Dean's plump lips, and Castiel has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from leaning over and kissing Dean right here in the middle of class.

                He tries to pay attention to what Mr. Wyatt is saying as he sees Dean writing something in reply on the note and folding it up again. Castiel has to wait to pick it up and open it until Mr. Wyatt is writing something else on the board again with his back to the class.

                When Cas unfolds it, all it says is one word: **_Good._**

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel is nervous by the time seven o' clock the next night rolls around. He had no idea what to wear to a party, so he called Charlie to come over ahead of time to help him get dressed. She's been digging through his closet for the past hour, tossing things aside, and now his room is a mess. And he's still standing here in his boxers and socks like a dork.

                "God, what's with all the souvenir shop merch in here?" she asks, holding up yet another United States themed t-shirt. Castiel remembers Bartholomew sending that one from Washington D.C.

                "My dad gets them for me in whatever state he happens to be in at the time," Castiel says, dropping down on his bed, surrounded by piles of old t-shirts. He should really go through and give half of these away to Goodwill.

                Charlie tosses aside another t-shirt with Mount Rushmore on it. "Have you heard anything about your parent's divorce?" she asks, glancing back at him.

                Cas shrugs. "No, it's just been quiet," he says, "I'm hoping they just do it gracefully and don't drag Anna and I into it too much, but that's probably not going to happen."

                Charlie hums a bit in acknowledgement, continuing to dig through Cas's closet. "Oh!" she says in delight, plucking a shirt out from the dark, dusty corners of the closet. It's a black, button-down shirt that Castiel wore to a nice restaurant once and then never wore again.

                "That?" he asks, and Charlie grins and nods, carrying it over to him and pulling him up from where he's sitting on the bed, holding the shirt up to his torso.

                "It's perfect!" she says, "And we can gel your hair up and find you a good pair of dark jeans or something. Do you have dark jeans?"

                Castiel nods towards his dresser. "If I do, they're in there. Most of my jeans are really old though."

                She shrugs. "Well that's okay, it's not like this is a fancy party or anything. But you don't wanna show up in a t-shirt from Georgia with oranges all over it."

                Castiel snorts, pulling the black button-down over his head and standing there in just that and his boxers. He runs his hand through his already-messy hair, still a little damp from his shower earlier. "Do I really have to gel my hair?" he asks, "It kind of sticks up all by itself anyway."

                Charlie glances back from where she's digging in Castiel's dresser drawer, studying his hair. "Mm, maybe not. You kinda have that whole smoking-hot-sex-hair thing going on."

                He cocks his head to the side. "What?"

                She laughs. "You're a hottie dude, just accept it."

                He just blinks at her, and then touches his hair again. He's never heard anyone call him hot before. Maybe that's why Dean likes him?

                Charlie yanks a pair of jeans out from the bottom of the drawer and tosses them at Cas. "Here, put those on. I think they'll work," she says, and he catches the pants with a fumble, shimmying his legs into them. They're loose, and comfortable, and the button-down is soft on the inside. This will do, he thinks.

                "How do I look?" he asks, holding his arms out, and Charlie eyes him up and down.

                "Deliberately casual," she nods.

                "Is that a good thing?" he asks.

                She grins and nods. "Very good," she says, "You'll have all those college boys hanging all over you."

                Castiel blushes. He can only really think of _one_ boy he wants hanging all over him, but he doesn't want to get ahead of himself. He doesn't even know for sure if Dean will be there. He never actually confirmed or denied that.  

                A loud knocking sounds downstairs, and then they hear the front door swing open. "I brought peach Schnapps!" they hear Gabriel call out from the front hallway.

                "We're up here!" Charlie replies, tossing a pair of black Converse to Castiel for him to wear and then adjusting her dress. Charlie is wearing a skin-tight tube-like dress with a C-3PO print on it. Castiel quirks a little smile as he watches her smooth it down while he puts on his shoes. The dress is very Charlie.

                Gabriel comes pounding up the stairs and wanders into Castiel's room. "Whoa Cas, looking hot!" he says, eyeing Castiel's button-down. Cas smiles at him in thanks, feeling a little flustered. That's the _second_ time he's ever been called hot in his life.

                 Gabriel is wearing a full red tuxedo that looks like it came from a thrift shop. Charlie laughs when she sees it. "You look like a porn star," she says, eyeing him up and down.

                "That's what I was going for," Gabe shrugs, "Now come on, Michael's waiting out in the car."

                "Michael?" Castiel asks.

                "My brother," Gabe says, "And he's not a patient dude, so chop-chop."

                Charlie grabs her little gold purse and slips it over her shoulder. "Where's Kevin?" she asks.          

                "He decided to drive separately and meet us there," Gabe replies, fiddling with the bottle of peach Schnapps in his hands, "He has to be home by midnight or his mom'll send him to bed without dinner for a month, or whatever it is that his mom does to him."

                "Ah, gotcha," Charlie says, glancing back at Castiel. She eyes his outfit up and down one more time, and then makes a little thinking noise, crossing the room to the dresser once more and pulling out a belt. "Here, put this on," she says.

                Castiel takes the belt and looks at it. "Why?"

                "Style," she grins, nodding towards his waist, "Now put it on and let's hit the road."

                Castiel doesn't know much of anything about style, but he figures Charlie knows enough to be trustworthy, so he pulls up his shirt and slides the belt through the loops on his jeans. It's simple belt - black with red stitching. He buckles it loosely, and then follows his friends out of the room and down the stairs.

                Michael's car is idling on the curb, and Castiel glances at Missouri's house before climbing in. Anna is waving at him from Missouri's living room window, and he smiles a little and waves back. Missouri agreed to allow her to stay the night tonight, and had made Castiel swear to be careful. He's not used to adults showing this much concern for him, so he had just blinked and nodded, his mind whirling a little.

                The car ride is just around 45 minutes, and it's fairly quiet apart from Gabe's sporadic chatter. Michael doesn't say much, just kind of plays the part of chauffer and looks ahead at the road. Charlie informs Castiel that Dorothy will be meeting them there at the party, and she looks stupidly excited. Cas is happy that things are working out well between the two of them. His mind wanders briefly to Dean, but he shakes it off.

                Cas's stomach twists with nerves as they drive into Johnson, Vermont and head into the richer neighborhoods on the outskirts. Each mansion is far apart and has a gate in front of their half-mile long driveways. Castiel's eye bug out of his head as he looks at them. He's seen huge houses before, but this is _insane_. Some of the mansions have their own guards at the gates.

                It's easy to tell which house is the one hosting the party. For one, it's the only house with the giant wrought-iron gates open in front of the driveway. Michael turns down the drive and Castiel lets his eyes wander. Gabriel was right about the gargoyles. There are _hundreds_ of them, peeking out from the bushes around the driveway, and sitting on top of cement pillars, faces twisted and tongues sticking out at their car as they drive past.

                The house itself is _monstrous_. Castiel can see four stories, and every window is lit up with bright, flashing lights. He can hear loud music coming from inside, and there are people milling around at the front entrance, arriving in their cars, all wearing various outfits ranging from skimpy party dresses to simple jeans and shirts like Castiel. The mansion actually has a parking lot just past the driveway, full of cars already, but Michael just pulls up in front of the wide staircase leading to the veranda and the front door, and puts the car into park.

                "Call me when you need to be picked up," he says to Gabe, "And don't do anything stupid."

                Gabe grins mischievously. "I'm a little angel, bro," he promises, patting him on the back and climbing out. Castiel thanks Michael for the ride and Michael nods, and they all climb out of the car. Gabriel already has his phone out and is texting Kevin, while Charlie is texting Dorothy, and they wait outside the house for the two of them.

                It's cold out, and Charlie shivers in her little C-3PO dress. Castiel wraps his arm around her bare shoulders and tries to warm her up, and she burrows into his side. "God, how are you always so warm?" she complains, shivering.

                "Well I _am_ wearing actual clothing right now," he points out with a glance at her tiny dress, and she laughs and shoves him before burrowing into his side again.

                Kevin and Dorothy catch up to them not three minutes later, and then the five of them wander up the stairs and in through the massive double front doors. Castiel has to actually stop for a moment inside to just _gawk_.

                It's even bigger inside that it looked outside. There are twin staircases on either side of the front entrance that curve up to a second story, and straight ahead through the back hallway, it opens up into another huge room that looks like a combined kitchen and living room. One of many living rooms anyway, as there's another one off to Castiel's left. A giant chandelier is hanging above them when they first walk in, but the numerous bulbs in it have been replaced with black lights.

                The music is shockingly loud, and as they continue walking through the mansion, Castiel realizes that every room is hooked up with surround-sound speakers all playing the same hip-hop and techno music. People are already dancing and laughs and sharing drinks despite the fact that the party just started.

                Gabe drags Castiel up to the full bar in the kitchen area, which looks more like a restaurant to be honest. He places an order for drinks to the actual _bartender_ (and why someone has their own personal bartender is beyond Castiel) who doesn't even check to see if they have ID and are of age to drink. Kevin nudges him and leans in close to his ear to shout over the music. "Gabe told me this is your first party!" he says.

                Castiel nods with a little smile, and Kevin leans in again. "You picked a fucking brilliant place to experience your first party!" he says to Castiel, patting him on the back, and Castiel chuckles a little, looking around at the flashing lights and the people dancing. There are easily over a thousand people here, but the house is big enough that there's room for everyone. He scans the crowd with his eyes, and he realizes he's looking for Dean, hoping that he'll pop out of the masses somewhere.

                Gabe hands Castiel a drink, and Castiel leans in to Gabe's ear. "What is this?" he asks, and Gabe just grins at him.

                "It's _good_!" he shouts back, "Just drink!"

                Castiel eyes the drink skeptically, and then takes a tentative sip. It tastes awful, but he can tell there's a lot of alcohol in it, so he forces himself to drink. That's why he came here, right? To get drunk? May as well just do it quickly and get it over with.

                Charlie and Dorothy order a shot each, and then hit the dance floor, and Castiel watches them for a while with a little smile on his face, draining his drink slowly. He begins to feel the effects of the alcohol instantly, and Gabe quickly ferries another drink into his hands, clinking their glasses together and laughing, drinking his own.

                As they stand there, a couple of girls in tight dresses and high heels that are downright _painful_ looking come stumbling up to Gabe and Cas, obviously drunk, and laughing with each other. One of them grabs Castiel's hand and pulls him towards the dance floor.

                "Dance with me!" she screams at him with a laugh, her voice barely audible over the music. Castiel sways a little, tipsy from his drinks, and he glances back at Gabe. The other girl is already pulling him towards the dance floor, and when Castiel searches for Kevin, he realizes Kevin has already disappeared somewhere into the crowd.

                He leans in next to the girl's ear. She smells overpoweringly of some sort of fruity perfume. "I don't know how to dance!" he says, feeling uneasy.

                She laughs and shakes her head. "It's okay!" she shouts back, "Come on! No one actually _dances_ anyway!"

                Cas cocks his head in confusion at that, but allows her to drag him onto the dance floor. There are well over a hundred people already dancing, writhing together in a pit of movement. Castiel stands there awkwardly for a second, glancing over and spotting Gabe with the other girl already laughing and dancing. The girl with Castiel spins around in front of him and rests her arms on his shoulders, grinning up at him blearily, her makeup a little smeared.

                "Just _feel_ the music!" she laughs, swaying a little. Castiel's vision swims a bit as the alcohol sets in more, and he places his hands on her waist. People keep bumping shoulders with him in the sea of dancing party goers, but he doesn't mind. She grins and laughs when he starts to dance, swaying with her, and very suddenly, she turns around and presses her back up against his chest.

                He looks down at her in confusion, but she just reaches back and places his hands on her hips, and begins grinding her ass against his crotch. He blinks, unsure what to do, because _is this supposed to be dancing_? He looks up and searches for Gabriel, finding him doing the exact same thing, only Gabe is dancing too, grinding his crotch up against the girl's ass in rhythm with the music. Castiel is _so_ confused, but as the alcohol sets in, he sort of doesn't care.

                He starts to move, swaying with the girl, her small little ass grinding against his jean-clad crotch. He's not attracted to girls, no, but this girl is sweet, and fun, and _very_ drunk, so he just humors her and dances as best he can.

                He doesn't know how long he dances with her, but eventually, he gets the rhythm down, his ears ringing with the volume of the music. A few people wander through the crowd handing out shots, and Castiel takes a few, clinking his glass together with the girl he's dancing with and tossing the alcohol back. He loses count after the third shot, but he doesn't think he's had _that_ many. The room is spinning, but it's the good kind of drunk, not the bad kind. Not the holy-fuck-I'm-going-to-pass-out-and-die drunk. Castiel is pleasantly giddy.

                He has no idea how long he dances there with the girl, and eventually she thanks him and runs off with her friend that was dancing with Gabe, leaving both of them without dancing partners. But the two girls are quickly replaced with two more, and they keep on dancing. It's a couple hours or so later that Castiel is dancing with his new girl, actually laughing a little, blinking drunkenly, when he feels heavy hands land on his shoulders from behind.

                He jumps a little, whipping around, and comes face to face with Dean. He feels a buzzing thrill wash through him when he sees Dean, and his drunken mind isn't helping at all. And the way Dean is smiling at him with a watery look in his eyes suggests that Dean is _very_ drunk too.

                Dean leans to the side and whispers something in the ear of the girl Castiel was dancing with. She giggles and nods and runs off, immediately finding someone else to dance with, and then Dean straightens back up, looking at Cas. "I was hoping I'd run into you here!" he shouts over the music, his hands on Castiel's hips. Cas cocks his head to the side.

                "How did you find me?" he asks, and it's torturous how close he has to get to Dean's ear to say it when he's not allowed to nibble on his earlobe.

                Dean shrugs. "I've been looking for a couple hours now!" he replies, grinning wolfishly, and Castiel stares at his mouth for a second, blinking, trying to figure out whether he's dreaming this or not in his drunken state. Dean chuckles and leans in again. "Will you dance with me?" he asks Castiel.

                Cas swallows, tasting whatever alcohol he last drank on his tongue. His sober mind is yelling at him that this isn't okay, but he's too drunk to listen. So he just nods, and Dean smiles widely, his white teeth reflecting the flashing lights. Dean's hands on Castiel's waist move around to his back, and he pulls Cas flush against him. Castiel immediately stiffens, but forces himself to relax when Dean starts to sway, his hands coming up around Dean's shoulders.

                The music is fast and Castiel can feel the bass in his chest, rattling his ribs and making his already-racing heart beat faster. But despite the speed of the music, Dean sways them both slowly, grinning lazily at Castiel, and they slow dance there in the middle of the rowdy crowd for an endless amount of time.

                Castiel isn't listening to the side of his brain screaming at him to get the fuck out of here, because he can't do this with Dean. He isn't listening to the side of himself saying that this is wrong, that he can't get involved with a guy like Dean. He completely ignores logic, because right now, with Dean's hands on his back and Dean's face inches from his, Castiel feels so _alive_. He feels lightheaded, and he's not sure how much of it is from the alcohol, and how much is from being right here in Dean's arms.

                Someone comes around with a tray of beers, and Dean snags one, taking a long swig. Castiel watches him, and Dean holds the bottle out, pressing it to Castiel's lips and tipping some beer back into Castiel's mouth for him. Cas allows Dean to pour a small amount of beer between his lips, and he swallows it, grimacing at the taste. He's never liked beer. Dean laughs at his expression and takes another long swig himself.

                A tiny drop of beer drips from the edge of the bottle and runs down Dean's bottom lip, making it shiny with the amber liquid in the flashing lights of the dance floor. Castiel doesn't even think - he just leans forward and darts his tongue out, licking the drop of beer away from Dean's lip. Dean freezes, his eyes wide and round as he looks at Castiel, and it's about then that Castiel realizes what he just did.

                He blushes furiously, but it's too dark in here for Dean to see, to Cas's relief. He drops his eyes, and swallows hard, continuing to sway to the music, even when he notices that Dean has stopped dancing. Castiel's tongue is tingling where it licked over the stubble on Dean's chin, and he scolds himself in his head for doing that. _Why the fuck did he just_ lick _Dean?_ Castiel must be more drunk than he thought.

                One of Dean's hands suddenly leaves his back, and Dean's knuckle comes up under Castiel's chin, tilting his head up again. And then Dean kisses him. He just leans in and presses their lips together.

                Castiel sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, his drunken brain delaying his reaction a bit. But then his eyes fall closed and he kisses Dean back. The kiss is even _more_ sloppy than the first two. Their noses bump together a couple times, and Dean presses in roughly, his hand on Castiel's back the only thing keeping him from losing balance and toppling over.

                Castiel presses just as roughly back into the kiss, because no matter how much he kisses Dean, he always wants _more_. He wants _more_ of Dean's tongue in his mouth, more of that earthy taste that belongs just to Dean, more of that stubble burn. Castiel pushes his tongue into Dean's mouth, and while he can't hear Dean groan over the music, he can feel the vibration of the noise against his lips, and Dean's breath brushes across his face.

                Castiel's hands wind around the back of Dean's shirt, and he grips the fabric, holding Dean against him as tightly as he can. Because Cas is drunk right now, and he knows he would never do something like this while he was sober. So he wants to just _live_ while his stupid brain is letting him. He wants to kiss Dean until they both pass out from oxygen deprivation. He wants to feel the ripple of Dean's broad muscles through his long-sleeved brown Henley. He wants to feel the vibration of the little groans Dean makes against his lips.

                Dean presses himself as tightly against Cas as he can, and Castiel actually flinches a little when he feels the hard line of Dean's erection through his jeans. _Wow_ , that's new. Castiel almost pulls away, but then he asks himself, why? Why pull away? Why get freaked out because Dean is enjoying himself?

                And more to the point: why would Castiel pull away because Dean has an erection, when Castiel can feel that he has one too?

                So he doesn't pull away. He presses in closer, and rolls his hips just once against Dean, pressing his own hardness against Dean's leg. He smiles into the kiss when he feels the vibration of Dean's groan against his lips again, and very suddenly, Dean jerks his head back, breaking off the kiss.

                They're both breathing hard, the music pounding in their chests, staring wide-eyed at each other. Everything is spinning behind Dean's head in Castiel's drunkenness, but Dean's face is clear, so Castiel focuses on that, even as he feels his body shaking with the desperate need to keep kissing Dean.

                But Dean takes a step away from him, and Castiel almost protests and grabs onto him again when Dean takes his hand and pulls him out of the crowd of writhing, jumping people. Castiel has no idea where Dean is taking him, but he doesn't care. As long as he can kiss Dean again, he doesn't care where they are. His eyes dart around briefly, looking for Gabe or Kevin or Charlie or Dorothy, but he sees none of them in the flashing lights and numerous people.

                Dean sets his beer down on a table just before they exit the large kitchen and enter a back hallway. The hallway is wide and dark, but the music is just as loud back here thanks to the speakers in every room. Once they're out of the main room and in the back corner of the hallway where there aren't any people, Dean stops, turning and pressing Castiel back against the wall and crushing their lips together.

                Cas feels a thrill roll through him, starting at his lips where Dean is kissing him and traveling down his chest, and stomach, and right into his dick. He shivers and grips Dean's shirt, pulling him closer, and Dean presses against him again. It's unlike how he pressed against him in the bathroom on Monday. There, Dean had been careful. He'd been gentle and cautious. But right now, Dean is drunk, and Castiel is drunk, and Dean is throwing caution to the wind. He's not restraining himself. He's grinding himself against Castiel, and holding him tightly, and kissing him roughly, and Castiel _loves_ it.

                Somewhere far in the back corners of his mind, he knows he shouldn't be doing this. But he doesn't care. Because it feels good, and he's painfully hard, and he doesn't care what his stupid mind is shouting at him.

                He plunges his tongue into Dean's mouth again, just to drag another groan from Dean's throat, and it works. Castiel feels the vibration of it against his lips. They stand there pressed against the wall kissing for an immeasurable number of minutes. Castiel loses himself in it. He loses himself in the way Dean's teeth gently nip at his lower lip. He loses himself in the way Dean's hand comes to rest on the side of his face, strangely gentle in contrast to the roughness of their kisses. He loses himself in the way Dean rolls his hips periodically, grinding their erections together torturously through their jeans.

                The music fades away, the lights fade, and it's just Dean here in the dark. That's all there is. Castiel spends these drunken moments of lips and hands and cocks existing in a world where there's only Dean and nothing else, _no one_ else.

                Minutes, hours, _days_ later, Dean pulls away again, breaking off the kiss once more, and Castiel seizes the opportunity to catch his breath, his head falling back against the wall, and he opens his eyes, finding Dean staring at him with lust-blown pupils and swollen, spit-slick lips. Dean just stares at him for a second, looking torn, and then he leans forward, his lips brushing Castiel's ear.

                "Do you want this?" Dean asks him, voice loud over the music. Castiel's forehead creases in confusion. He's not exactly sure what Dean is asking, and he's too drunk to try to figure it out. But he looks at Dean and nods anyway, because while he doesn't know what Dean is asking necessarily, he knows that he'll take _anything_ Dean has to give, that he wants _anything_ Dean will offer. Especially right now, with alcohol swirling through his system, making him more brave than he really is.

                Dean just studies him for a moment, his eyes darting from one of Cas's to the other. He seems strangely focused, even though he's drunk, but Castiel figures Dean has more experience with alcohol than he does.

                Cas doesn't wait for Dean to work through whatever he's thinking. He doesn't want to think right now. He just wants to feel. He leans forward and presses his lips to Dean's again, shutting his eyes to the world, holding onto Dean's shirt in his fists. Dean kisses him back briefly, and then pulls away long enough to take Castiel's hand again and drag him further down the hallway, stopping in front of a small door. He opens it and pulls Castiel inside.

                He backs Cas up against the door, closing it and locking it in the process. There's a tiny window on the far wall that allows light from the backyard to fill the room in a dim glow. They're in some kind of closet full of winter coats and hats, and that's about all Castiel has a chance to see before Dean is kissing him again, pressing himself from chest to groin against Cas, grinding against him, both of them groaning in unison.

                It's only when he actually _hears_ Dean groan that Castiel realizes the music is marginally quieter in here. They didn't install speakers in the closet, thank goodness. The music is still very loud, too loud to speak at a normal volume and hear each other. But Castiel and Dean aren't talking at the moment, so Cas supposes it doesn't really matter.

                Dean kisses him until Castiel feels like his heart is going to melt out of his chest, and he loses himself in the feeling of those plump, slick lips. It's only when he feels Dean's hand slide over his crotch that Castiel suddenly jerks and freezes, almost coming in his pants right then and there. Because _no one_ has ever touched him there. Dean doesn't notice Castiel flinch, too lost in the kiss, and he begins to press the heel of his hand against the line of Castiel's dick through his pants, massaging him slowly.

                As Dean's hand starts to move, Castiel goes rigid against the wall, gripping Dean's shoulders tightly, a strangled groan torn from his throat as a wave of pleasure explodes through his lower abdomen. His fingertips tingle with it, and his heart is slamming in his chest. He feels Dean smile into the kiss as Castiel starts to rut up against Dean's palm. He rolls his hips a few times, and he can feel Dean grinding his own erection against his leg.

                Just when Castiel thinks he's about to come in his pants, breathing hard and holding on tight, Dean pulls away again, breaking off the kiss. He sees the confused, shocked pleasure in Castiel's eyes, and he grins, massaging his hand a little harder against Castiel's groin just to see the look on Castiel's face. Cas's eyes slam shut and his head thumps back against the door as he gasps and lets out a shameless moan.

                It feels so _different_ having someone else touch him down there. He used to think that having someone stroke his dick would feel basically the same as masturbating by himself, but it's _not_. It couldn't be more different. Castiel literally can't control the way his body is melting into the door.

                Dean licks his lips, smiling, and then suddenly, he's sinking to his knees. Castiel breathes hard, watching as Dean kneels in front of him, and he doesn't know what Dean's doing until Dean reaches for the buckle of Castiel's belt. Cas just blinks and watches in awe as Dean opens the buckle, and then unbuttons Castiel's pants, opening them just enough to expose the damp crotch of Cas's boxers.

                Dean takes once glance up at Castiel's wide-eyed face, grinning when he sees that he's watching, and then leans forward, mouthing over the hard line of Castiel's erection through the material of his boxers. Castiel shivers and groans. He can feel Dean's lips, can actually _feel_ their shape and the texture of them, through his boxers. Dean can tell that Castiel is just about out of his mind with need, and he's already so fucking close it's actually embarrassing, so Dean doesn't tease him for long.

                Dean hesitates only briefly, taking a last glance up at Castiel as if checking to make sure this really is okay. Then, Dean peels his boxers down, and Cas's stiff, leaking dick springs free, bobbing heavily in front of Dean's face. Dean leans forward and mouths up the side of Cas's shaft, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the velvety flesh, making Castiel's thighs spasm and twitch with need.

                When Dean reaches the head, he doesn't even pause, just wraps his lips around the crown and laves his tongue against Castiel's leaking slit. Castiel almost sobs at the sensations that explode through his body. This is his first blowjob, and now he understands. He understands what everyone is talking about, why this is the most amazing feeling in the world.

                Dean pushes forward, Castiel's dick sliding torturously slow into his mouth. It's wet, and hot, and when Dean sucks down, it grows impossibly tight. Dean doesn't take Castiel in very far at first, pulling back and teasing his tongue under the head again before sinking back down. He does this a few times, until Castiel is shaking and moaning shamelessly and he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

                He struggles to pull enough air into his lungs as he stares down at Dean, and Dean chooses that moment to look up at Castiel from underneath his lashes, and it's the most outrageously impure thing Castiel has ever seen, Dean's lips stretched around his shaft, eyes twinkling with a smile that can't reach his lips because his mouth is open too wide with Castiel's dick in it. It's downright _filthy_ , and Castiel almost comes just from the sight of it alone. But he bites his lip and breathes, staving off his orgasm, just enjoying the moment.

                Dean sinks back down and starts up a steady, slow rhythm, squeezing at the base of Castiel's dick to keep him from coming too soon, bobbing his head up and down. Dean works his throat open, willing it to relax, and before Castiel knows it, Dean has his nose buried in Cas's short, trimmed pubes, and his cock is all the way down Dean's throat. He groans and gasps as he feels Dean's throat fluttering around his dick, and almost loses it again when Dean swallows a few times, massaging the cock down his throat in all the right places.

                He pulls off again and bobs a few more times, spit and precome dribbling out of the corners of his mouth. It's the hottest thing Cas has ever seen, and he has to look away. He lets his head fall back against the door and he squeezes his eyes shut. He feels that pleasure boiling ferociously in his abdomen, feels it building, spiraling higher and higher, and he digs his fingers into the door behind him, scrabbling for something to hold onto.

                Dean seems to notice that Castiel is about the claw the door to shreds, and Cas flinches a little as Dean reaches forward, taking Castiel's hands and placing them on the back of his own head. Castiel leaves them there for a moment, confused, but when Dean sucks particularly hard, he moans and threads his fingers through Dean's soft hair, gripping it tightly.

                If he were sober, he would have a little more control over himself, but right now, he's drunk, and he can't stop himself from rolling his hips forward at one point, thrusting into Dean's face. But Dean takes it in stride, pulling back to keep from choking, and then dipping down again.

                Castiel is proud to say that he lasts a lot longer than he figured he would, given that this is his first blowjob _and_ he's drunk. But eventually, he feels his climax coiling up and getting ready to spring, feels his balls tightening as he's about to come. He pulls on Dean's hair, trying to warn him, trying to get him to pull away before Castiel comes in his mouth. But instead of letting go, Dean grabs onto Castiel's hips and swallows his cock, forcing Cas all the way down his own throat, and Castiel can't hold back anymore.

                He cries out, his body jerking, hands tightening painfully in Dean's hair, and he comes directly down Dean's throat. It's _the_ single best orgasm he's ever had in his entire life, and he lets loose a guttural groan as spurts of his come fill Dean's mouth. Dean takes it like a champ, swallowing every drop, waiting until Castiel finishes before pulling back, sucking his shaft clean of any remaining come before finally letting go.

                Castiel's hands drop limply away from Dean's hair as he comes down from the climax, slumping exhaustedly against the door, breathing hard, his entire body feeling like putty. He barely feels Dean tuck him back into his boxers and buckle his pants back up again before standing. Castiel swallows hard, catching his breath, and he blinks, looking at Dean. Dean grins at him, like he knows _exactly_ how much he just rocked Cas's world, and then he leans forward, burying his face in Castiel's neck and pressing soft little kisses to the sweaty skin there.

                Cas's hand comes up, and he weakly takes Dean's chin, turning his face so that he can capture his lips, and he kisses him, not even caring where his mouth just was because that was the most _amazing_ thing he's ever experienced, and he doesn't know how to say thank you. Dean shifts a little, kissing him more gently than before, and Castiel is surprised when he feels Dean's erection against his leg again. _Right_ , crap. Castiel should probably reciprocate. That's how these things work, right?

                He's a little nervous, because he's never given a blowjob before, and he's probably going to be horrible at it, but he can't just blue ball Dean. He kisses him deeply, and Castiel slides his own hand over Dean's erection, much like Dean did to him. Dean jumps like he was burned, and pulls away, a weird, shocked look in his eyes.

                Castiel jerks his hand away from Dean's crotch instantly, and Dean looks down at it, and then swallows, looking back up at Castiel.

                "I...I can help with that," Castiel says hesitantly, nodding towards Dean's very-prominent erection.

                Dean's throat ripples as he swallows, and he has a strange, guarded look in his eyes. But he quirks a little smile, leaning forward and kissing Cas again once, chastely. "It's okay," he says, "I don't want you to."

                He kisses Cas again to distract him, but Castiel's forehead crinkles in confusion. How could Dean not want him to reciprocate? When he very clearly needs _some_ kind of release? But Dean told him not to, so Castiel doesn't try to touch his dick again. He just stands there and kisses Dean back, and then sighs, dropping his forehead to Dean's shoulder exhaustedly, drained from the powerful orgasm.  

                Dean chuckles a little, the music still loud in the small closet. "You okay?" he asks.

                Castiel huffs a little laugh, and looks back up at Dean. "Yes, I'm good," he says, "That was..."

                Dean grins. "Awesome, I know," he says cockily, chuckling and taking a step back. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and glances at the time. "I should probably go," he says, looking regretful as he says it, "I told my brother I'd be home before midnight."

                Castiel has no idea what time it is, but he wants to ask Dean to stay. He doesn't want him to leave. But he shouldn't beg like that. So he just swallows and nods, stepping aside and allowing Dean to reach the door. But Dean stops in front of him, and leans in, kissing him once more, deeply, his lips lingering there. When he pulls away, it's just by a fraction, and he gives Castiel a small, genuine smile. "Thank you," he murmurs, barely audible over the music, and even though Cas has no idea what Dean is thanking him for, he nods a little, still drunk and dazed from the blowjob.

                Dean sways a little as he reaches for the doorknob, still a little drunk too, and he takes one last glance back at Castiel before stepping out of the closet and slipping down the hall. Cas stares at the door for a few minutes, his whole body vibrating, his mind reeling. He stands there long enough to where his brain starts to convince himself that all of that was just a dream, and then he moves again, walking on shaky, weak legs out of the closet, smoothing down his shirt.

                It takes him a while, but he finally finds Gabe in the crowd, drunkenly dancing with two girls ( _go Gabriel_ ). Gabe looks like he's having a lot of fun, so Cas doesn't bother him, and a few minutes later, Charlie and Dorothy both appear on either side of Cas, dragging him by the arms into the middle of the dance floor again and laughing wildly as they all start to dance. They force Castiel to dance with them, and eventually Cas just lets go and does what he can, to their delight. He feels weak and tired after the orgasm, but he makes himself keep moving, grabbing another drink off a tray as someone carries it by, tossing it back.

                He keeps waiting for heavy hands to land on his shoulders, for Dean to appear and kiss him again, but Dean has already left to go home. Cas ignores the disappointment in his chest, and he tries to fathom the fact that he just had the most erotic experience of his life in a coat closet with Dean Winchester. Surely this is all just one big insane dream.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean surfaces groggily the next morning, wincing as his head pulses waves of pain down his spine. God but he fucking hates hangovers.

                He rolls over onto his back, groaning and blinking his eyes open, wincing as the daylight out the window makes his headache even worse. He reaches up and rubs at the top of his head, wincing when he feels a twinge in his scalp.

                And it suddenly comes flooding back to him.

                Dancing with Castiel at the party. Kissing Cas's sweet mouth in the back hallway. Pushing Castiel into the closet. The feeling of Cas's heavy dick resting on Dean's tongue.

                Dean's heart leaps in his chest, and despite the headache, he reaches up and tugs on his hair again, just to feel the soreness in his scalp where Castiel pulled on it last night while Dean was sucking him off. He grins, and chuckles a little, rolling over onto his side and burying his face in his pillow happily. He can't even be mad about the ungodly fare he had to pay the taxi to drive him the 45 minutes home last night, because he's too happy about Castiel.

                The sounds Castiel made last night while Dean was swallowing him down were the best sounds Dean has ever heard in his life. Who knew Cas would be so loud? Dean could even hear him over the music at the party. That was better than he could have ever hoped for. Even if Dean got a little scared when Castiel tried to touch his dick to return the favor.

                Dean isn't going to think about the reason _why_ he got scared when Castiel touched him like that. He doesn't want to think about Alastair anymore. So he's just going to enjoy the fact that he blew Castiel's _mind_ last night, and just leave it at that.

                He smiles, licking his lips at the memory, and pushes himself up from his bed, wincing and groaning as his head pounds and stomach churns. He drank way too much last night, but not enough to forget the details of what he and Cas did in the closet, and Dean's going to cherish those details for the rest of his life.

                He pushes himself up and sways down the hall to the bathroom, holding onto the wall as his head spins with his hangover. He decides to take a bath, since sitting sound far more preferable than standing up in the shower. He locks the door and runs the bath, and when it's full, he sinks into the hot water, groaning and shivering as it soothes his sore, hung over body. He forces himself not to think about the fact that the last person who actually took a bath here was Castiel. Dean doesn't want to think about how dirty and bloody the water was.

                He swallows hard and tips his head back, resting it on the porcelain and closing his eyes, willing his headache and nausea to go away.

                He lays there for a long while, almost falling asleep a couple times. And it's probably the most relaxing Saturday morning he's ever had. Not because of the bath, or the quiet of the house as Sam and John still sleep.

                It's because as Dean lays here, his mind stays quiet. It's the first time in what feels like _forever_ that he doesn't think about Alastair, or Ghost Town, or John's drinking, or Mary's death, or cigarette burns, or the horrible things he's done to Castiel, or losing Crowley as his best friend, or his inability to jerk off without puking.

                No. He doesn't think about any of these things. He lays there, and thinks about the feeling of Castiel's lips against his. And he feels amazing. He feels invincible. He feels like he's flying.

                Castiel is his cure. For everything happening in his head, Castiel is his cure. He's the cure to everything, to every horror that plagues Dean's mind. Castiel is better than alcohol, and burning, and any drug Dean could ever take to make himself forget all the things he tries so desperately to put out of his mind.

                Castiel is the best kind of medicine. Dean _needs_ him. Like an addiction.

                And Dean is just selfish enough, that he's going to let himself indulge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was my first attempt at writing smut hahaha I realize it's probably a bit long, but when I write, I kind of go overboard on the details, so I just left it the way it was :P I hope it sufficed hahaha


	17. Endorphins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, sorry for any typos :)

_Oh shit._

That’s the first thought that crosses Castiel’s mind when he wakes up on Saturday morning.

                That, and _find the fucking bathroom quick_ because he’s about to puke.

                He groans miserably as he opens his eyes, his head throbbing as he tries to sit up. He really doesn’t want to puke on the floor. He claws at his nightstand in an attempt to sit up, but ends up simply rolling off the bed, grunting as he hits the wooden floor, landing among piles of discarded t-shirts from last night when Charlie was sifting through his closet.

                With another groan, knowing full-well how pathetic and miserable he sounds, he pushes himself up onto all fours and crawls out of his room and down the hall to the bathroom. When he reaches the toilet, he just lays his head on the seat, promising himself that he’ll shower later since his face is pressed to the same porcelain where someone’s ass probably was sometime in the last 24 hours.

                He spends the next ten minutes puking up everything left in his stomach from last night. Mostly it’s just alcohol. He thinks he can taste some sort of rum on the back of his tongue, which just makes him gag more. Afterwards, when he’s just laying there on the toilet seat with his eyes closed, his aching head has time to wander back to what happened last night.

                He has no idea if he dreamt half the things he remembers from the party in Johnson. He doesn’t know if he dreamt slow-dancing with Dean in the middle of a rowdy crowd. He doesn’t know if he dreamt licking beer of off Dean’s lip, and Dean kissing him fiercely. He doesn’t know if he dreamt…

                Castiel blushes as he remembers the feeling of Dean’s hot mouth wrapped around his dick. _Surely_ Castiel dreamt that. There’s no _way_ that actually happened, is there? He opens his eyes just a crack, looking down at the crotch of his boxers as if he’ll find the answer there. As if Dean would leave a mark of some kind. But there’s nothing.

                Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and spitting once more into the toilet bowl, he flushes and grabs the edge of the counter, pulling himself up and dragging himself in front of the mirror. When he looks up, he squints in the bright bathroom lights at his own reflection. He looks like shit – sweaty and pale and positively hung over. This is the worst hangover he’s ever had.

                He reaches for his toothbrush and painstakingly squeezes some toothpaste onto it, brushing his teeth slow and lazy. Minutes later, when he finally spits and looks back up, he gets a good look for the first time at his lips. They’re swollen. Just a little. If he wasn’t used to the way his pale lips usually look, somewhat flat and relatively ordinary, he wouldn’t have noticed. But they’re just a _little_ swollen, and there are faint bruises there that make him look like he chewed on his lip too much or something.

                Castiel gawks at his lips, because he _knows_ why they’re swollen. _It actually happened_. Kissing Dean in that hallway, Dean sucking him off. It all actually happened! And they kissed so much last night that Castiel’s lips are all kiss-bruised and swollen like he was punched in the mouth. He remembers Dean sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, nipping gently, pressing him back against the wall…

                Despite his massive hangover right now, Castiel feels his dick twitch in his boxers at the memory. He blows out all the breath in his lungs, rinsing his mouth out with a cup of water and then turning on the shower. He smells like sweat and alcohol. He should at least rinse off a little before he goes to pick up Anna at Missouri’s house. It takes him five minutes or so in the shower to just scrub himself down, and all the while he thinks to himself, _is this the part where he’s supposed to regret what happened_?

                Because as hard as he tries right now, as much as he knows it was _wrong_ what he and Dean did, he can’t bring himself to regret it. He can’t. Because that was the most amazing night of his life. Even if he experienced those things with his bully. Even if he experienced that with Dean. _Especially_ since he experienced that with Dean.

                Let’s face it – Castiel wouldn’t have enjoyed that as much as he did if it were anyone _but_ Dean with him.

                He’s so screwed. He’s so hopelessly smitten. _Fuck_.

                He punches off the water in the shower and climbs out, wandering down the hall ass-naked to his room, since there’s no one else home. He drip-dries as he fishes in his nightstand drawer for the torn up remains of the Project FAD list. He lays them out on his bed, piecing them together like a puzzle so he can read what’s written there again.

                Suddenly, all the rules on the Project FAD list seem silly. For a while, he wasn’t allowed to even _look_ at Dean, and now here he is the morning after receiving his first blowjob from Dean himself. He grinds his teeth and looks down at his dick.

                “This is your fault, you know,” he says to his penis. It just hangs there all innocent like it doesn’t have a clue what Cas is talking about.

                He sighs in frustration and runs his hand through his wet hair, feeling water droplets sliding down between his bare shoulder blades. He settles his palm over his heart, standing there feeling the steady beating of it within his chest. No, this isn’t entirely his dick’s fault. It’s his heart too. His dick is just following what his heart wants. He wishes he could just tear it out of his chest and throw it away. He would do that, if only that wouldn’t kill him. It would be so much easier to just not feel anything at all, instead of feel this way about Dean.

                Gritting his teeth, Castiel reaches down and scoops up the Project FAD remains, throwing them back in his nightstand drawer and pulling on a pair of jeans and a _Mile High City_ Denver t-shirt that he plucks off the floor from where Charlie threw it. He glances around at the piles of old t-shirts, and promises himself that he’ll go through them later today and give half of them away. He has too many, and half of them don’t even fit him anymore since Bartholomew got them for him when he was much younger.

                Castiel swallows back another wave of nausea, tossing back three Ibuprofen tablets before wandering out of his house and next door to Missouri’s. Jesse answers the door wearing a cape and a Zorro mask, and he goes swooshing back into the house like a superhero as Castiel steps inside. Whatever Missouri is cooking smells amazing, but it makes Castiel’s stomach twist uneasily with his hangover. He wanders back to the kitchen and finds Anna there sitting at the table.

                He gives Missouri an exhausted smile as she looks up at him from the stove. She tuts about his drained appearance and nods towards the table. “Take a seat sugar, I’m making the hangover special,” she says, “Looks like someone had a little fun last night.”

                Castiel blushes before he can help it. Yes he certainly _did_ have fun last night.

                Missouri dishes out a heaping plate of hash browns and sausage links, with some kind of greasy egg sandwich. It looks both delicious and disgusting, but Castiel heard somewhere that greasy food helps with a hangover. He thanks Missouri when she sets it in front of him, and he forces himself to dig in. She sets some sort of tea in front of him too that smells like dirt, and he looks up at her questioningly.

                She raises her eyebrow. “Don’t give me that look,” she says, “I’ve had more hangovers in my life than you’ve had sunrises. My tea recipe is the perfect cure, every time.”

                Castiel gives the tea a sniff, and grimaces as it makes his stomach roll unhappily, but he forces himself to drink some of it. Missouri is like some kind of sorcerer. If she says that it'll cure his hangover, Cas knows it's true. Anna goes wandering off into the living room sometime in the middle of Castiel painstakingly eating his food. Cas has noticed that Anna is becoming much more at home here at Missouri's house. It makes him happy - she needs somewhere to go where there are people. She spends far too much time alone when Castiel is at school or work.

                Missouri takes a seat across from him just as he's nibbling on the last of his hash browns. "Is it Dean Winchester?" she asks, and Castiel looks up at her as he chews.

                "What?" he asks, and her eyes twinkle a little as she smiles.

                "The reason you're so happy this morning," she says, "Is it because of Dean Winchester?"

                Castiel stares at her wide-eyed for a moment, gulping as he swallows his hash browns. He wasn't aware that he looked happy. He actually feels like complete shit, but now that Missouri mentions it, he's got this light feeling in his chest like something has fallen into place. That something is Dean. "How did you know?" he asks.

                She shrugs, cradling her own cup of tea. "You said you liked him," she replies, "I just put the pieces together."

                Castiel licks his lips unconsciously at the memory of Dean's mouth on his. Then he smiles a little. "Is that bad?"

                "Is what bad?"

                Castiel glances down at his fork, twirling it in his fingers. "Is it bad that Dean makes me happy after everything he did?"

                She lowers her head a little, looking at him under her eyebrows. "Has that boy treated you badly since he made all those mistakes?"

                Castiel swallows, not even hesitating before shaking his head. "We kissed."

                A little smile spreads on Missouri's face. "Then it's not a bad thing," she says.

                Castiel bites his lip, looking down at his half-finished tea. He actually does feel better now, like his hangover is fading. Missouri was right. This tea is magic. He takes another sip as he thinks, and then swallows and looks back up at her. "What do I do?" he asks, a little pathetically. He's at a loss. His brain is warring with him and he doesn't know which side to choose.

                She purses her lips a little. "What do you think you should do?"

                Cas almost rolls his eyes. That's a very Missouri thing to say, to turn the question back on him. This woman doesn't _give_ answers per se - she forces you to give them to yourself. But Castiel doesn't want that right now. He needs someone to tell him what to do. So he just sighs and shakes his head. "I don't know," he says exhaustedly, and then pauses for a moment, licking his lips again, "But I don't think I can stay away from Dean anymore."

                She sips her tea as she nods. "Well there's your answer," she replies.

 

*       *       *

 

                By the time math class rolls around on Monday, Castiel's stomach is in knots with nerves. He's actually getting really tired of being this nervous all the time, but these are the good kind of nerves. They're the kind that make you feel like laughing, not the kind that make you feel like puking, so he calls that a win at least.

                He's been a bit off all day, and he _knows_ that his friends know something happened at the party. But he's not planning on telling them yet - not for a while. He's scared to. He's not sure how they'll react, since his friends are the ones that have been there with him when his face was a mess and his spirits were in shambles after beatings from Dean and his friends last semester. He's sure Gabriel will say something about Stockholm Syndrome again, and honestly, Castiel isn't entirely sure that Gabe would be wrong.

                But Missouri made a good point Saturday morning. Dean hasn't done anything bad to him since the night Cas spent in the woods. In fact, he's done the opposite. He's _prevented_ bad things from happening to Castiel. He's protected him from the other Cancers. He's given him his first real kiss. He's given him his first blowjob. And _God_ , Castiel can't even _think_ that without blushing.

                So he's torn, just like he's been torn for the past _however_ many months about his feelings for Dean. He's decided to at least try to be friends with him, because at this point Castiel can't imagine trying to cut Dean out of his life after everything that's happened, good and bad. He can't imagine not being able to see those big green eyes every day.

                He takes his usual seat in math class Monday afternoon and shuffles his books around, his stomach fluttering nervously (and excitedly) as he watches out of the corner of his eye for Dean to walk into the room. The blonde girl who used to sit in the desk next to Castiel, before Dean started sitting there every day, now sits in the back of the room automatically, no matter if Dean is in her old seat yet or not by the time she arrives. It's kind of nice, because frankly, the best part of math class is having Dean two feet away from Castiel for an hour. It's as unbearable as it is wonderful.

                Dean walks into the classroom a minute before the bell, and Castiel glances up at him as he does. The first thing he sees is a massive black bruise adorning the left side of Dean's face, wrapped around his eye and extending down over his cheekbone. His expression looks exhausted, but the second he locks eyes with Castiel, his face lights up and he smiles, plopping down in the chair next to him. Castiel can't help but smile back at Dean, but his forehead crinkles a little, and for a moment, he forgets completely about the fact that this should be awkward, seeing each other for the first time since their sexual encounter at the party.

                "What happened to your face?" he asks Dean, eyeing the bruises. They're an ugly shade of purple-red, and there's a tiny cut right in the center. But strangely enough, the color highlights how _green_ Dean's eyes are, and Cas is momentarily lost in them when Dean looks over at him.

                "Velociraptor," he replies with a smirk, "But I took care of it, so there's nothing to worry about."

                Castiel raises his eyebrows. "I'm glad to know the situation's handled," he says, and Dean smiles a little at him, a softer smile this time. Before he can say anything more, the bell rings and Mr. Wyatt starts the lesson. Dean whips out his notebook from his binder and starts writing down whatever he can in his messy scrawl as Castiel watches out of the corner of his eye.

                It's not unusual to see Dean with bruises all over his face. It seems every other week he has some sort of injury somewhere. But Castiel knows that Dean gets in fights a lot - or he used to anyway - so he never really thought much of it. Especially when Cas had his own bumps and bruises to deal with.

                Still though, Castiel can't help but wonder why Dean always seems to be in such bad shape. He constantly looks like he just walked out of a warzone or something.

                He tries to pay attention throughout the class, but Dean keeps glancing at him, and every so often, Cas will glance back, and they'll lock eyes briefly. And Dean is always smiling. It's a mischievous little quirk of his lips, and it makes that light, fluttery feeling in Castiel's chest even more unbearable. He spends most of class debating to himself whether or not he should ask to go to the bathroom in the hopes that Dean will follow him there and they can kiss again. That's all Castiel wants to do, is just kiss Dean again.

                His eyes skip down to Dean's lips as he thinks about how amazing it felt to kiss him, and he's surprised to find that Dean's lips look just like his. They're a little bruised, although not swollen anymore since the party was a few days ago now. Somehow, seeing that Dean's lips are marked up from their kissing, makes something swell in Castiel's chest. For the first time in his life, he feels possessive over something - _someone_. He likes seeing the way he marked Dean, almost like marking his territory. He doesn't want anyone else to touch Dean. That's fucked up and wrong, but he doesn't care. He wants Dean all for himself.

                He shakes himself and looks back down at his notes, which are sporadic and don't make much sense since he hasn't been paying attention all class. He'll have to meet up with Mr. Wyatt and catch up in the class sometime this week. It's stupid that _one_ person can affect Castiel as much as Dean is affecting him, distracting him in class, messing with his head. But Cas is done trying to deny it, and he's done trying to resist it. Even if it's wrong, and bad, and he should regret what happened at the party, and hate these thoughts running through his head, he just doesn't. He doesn't care anymore. It's exhausting trying to resist.

                Castiel snaps out of it when Dean suddenly turns sideways in his chair and faces him about halfway through the class, resting his elbows on his knees so that their faces are only about a foot apart. "What'd you get on number two?" Dean asks, and Castiel flinches a little, looking over at him. His eyes dart to the front of the room where Mr. Wyatt has taken a seat at his desk, and then he looks around to see everyone else in the classroom partnering up to work on something. When he looks back at Dean, Dean snorts. "You weren't paying attention at all, were you?"

                Castiel blushes a little, glancing down at his paper. "Was it obvious?" he asks.

                "Only to me," Dean shrugs, and then scoots his chair closer to Castiel so that he can set his paper on his desk. Cas can only stare as Dean's bruised face gets closer, but he has to force himself not to lean in and kiss him right here in front of everyone. "We're supposed to go over problems 1 through 4 on the homework with a partner," Dean says, and Cas blinks and looks down at the paper Dean set on his desk.

                "Um..." he says, and then swallows and starts fishing through his binder, "Right. I have it somewhere in here."

                He can't stop blushing as he sifts through his math folder, because he can feel Dean staring at him, a fond little smile on his face that confuses Castiel to no end. He has to keep reminding himself that _Dean likes him too_. This isn't a one-sided crush anymore. Dean was the one who confessed his feelings first in the bathroom that day. Dean _likes_ him. Dean _kissed_ him. So what does Castiel have to be nervous about?

                He slides his homework out of his folder and lays it out on his desk next to Dean's. Castiel's handwriting is mostly script, whereas Dean's is blocky and messy. Cas feels a little flutter in his gut when he looks at Dean's handwriting. It fits his personality so well, and the word _cute_ crosses Castiel's mind before he blushes even harder for even _associating_ the word _cute_ with Dean.

                When Cas looks over again, Dean is staring at him still, his eyes wandering all over his face, and Castiel realizes Dean is looking at the rosy blush on his pale cheeks. Dean's eyes fall on his lips, and Castiel can't help but bite his bottom lip and look away, down to his homework, trying _so hard_ to stop blushing because it's fucking embarrassing.

                "We got the same answer on number two," Cas says, trying to keep his voice from wavering as his dick twitches in his pants. All he can think about is how _warm_ and _tight_ Dean's mouth felt around his cock at the party on Friday night.

                He glances up and sees Mr. Wyatt looking at them. The teacher gives a little smile when he locks eyes with Castiel, and Cas looks back down. He supposes maybe it's a bit weird for Mr. Wyatt to see Castiel working with someone. Usually when the class is told to partner up and work together on something, Castiel sits here and works alone, because he doesn't have any friends in this class. Only now...he does. He has Dean. Dean is his friend. Right? They're working together right now, after all. Aren't they friends?

                If they are...lord help him, because Castiel is probably going to regret it.

                Dean leans over and their shoulders brush as he scribbles a note down on his paper next to problem three, correcting his work when he sees that Castiel's is different from his. "Sammy usually forces me to do my homework at night," Dean says conversationally, "You remember my brother Sam?"

                Castiel smiles a little and nods, willing his blush to go away even as he feels heat radiating off of Dean so close to him. "He was with you at Hautley's Bend the first time I saw you."

                Dean looks over at Castiel with a little grin, but he also looks like he's contemplating something. He seems to hesitate, and bites his lip a little, which sends another signal straight to Castiel's dick _of course_. Then, he pulls in a breath. "Do you want to hang out at Hautley's Bend tonight?" Dean asks, and Castiel blinks at him. _What_?

                "Um..." he says, because his mind immediately jumps to his defense mechanisms, immediately assumes that this is some sort of practical joke.

                "It's okay if you're busy or whatever," Dean quickly adds, "I was just wondering, you know...'cause I don't have any plans. So..."

                Castiel just looks at him for a moment, long enough to where a faint blush blooms across Dean's freckled cheeks, visible even under the bruises. When he sees it, Castiel's stomach flips again, because that blush is so endearing. How can he resist? He nods once, a little smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "Yeah," he replies, "Okay."

                "Yeah?" Dean asks, "You'll hang out with me?" He sounds so damn hopeful it actually confuses Castiel, but it's also reassuring. Maybe this isn't some sort of dream.

                Castiel nods. "I'd like that," he says, and a grin spreads across Dean's face.

                "Awesome," he smiles, and scoots his chair a little closer, leaning over their work again, comparing their answers for problem four. He scoots close enough to where they're pressed together from shoulder to knee. Castiel doesn't mean to, but he leans into the touch a little, because he craves the feeling of any part of Dean touching him. The brush of fingers, or the bump of a shoulder, or the touch of his lips. He craves it, all the time. He craves the touch of those hands that he used to fear. He craves the touch of hands that used to leave bruises all over his face.

                It's so raw. It's so fucked up. Either Castiel is twisted, or this is all a dream. But he's just going to let it happen. Because feeling the heat of Dean's body against his is the best kind of drug. It's worth it.

                He spends the rest of the class half-paying-attention to the work he and Dean are doing, and half-focusing on _not_ leaning over and just kissing Dean again like he _really_ wants to. He honestly wants to get down on his knees and suck Dean off right here, even though he's _never_ given a blowjob before. And when he'd tried to reciprocate at the party, Dean had pulled away like Castiel had slapped him. Cas wonders why Dean wouldn't let him touch him back, after Dean was so generous with him, but he tries not to think about it.

                He can't help the excited flutter in his chest when he thinks about the fact that he and Dean are going to hang out tonight. This is the first time they've officially made plans to hang out. Sure, they've run into each other once or twice outside of school, like on Christmas and at Bela Talbot's party, but they've never actually planned something out. Honestly, Cas and Dean don't know each other that well, and Cas has no idea how far this will go, but Cas _feels_ like he knows Dean. He feels like he's known Dean for years. And despite the fact that they really don't know much about each other, Cas doesn't anticipate that it will be awkward tonight at Hautley's Bend. It wasn't even awkward on Christmas, and Castiel had been crying then.

                When the bell finally rings signaling the end of class, everyone immediately starts talking loudly and packing up their things. Dean pauses only briefly before pulling away and scooting back over to his own desk. He whips out his binder and opens it to stuff his notebook inside, and Castiel glances over just in time to see a little origami angel tucked into the clear plastic pocket on the inside of the binder. His stomach flutters _again_ when he realizes it's the angel Dean made the night he hung out with Castiel at Bobby's shop.

                "You kept it," Castiel says, smiling before he can stop himself as he looks at the angel. Dean glances at him, and then glances down at the origami.

               He grins. "Of course," he says, running his fingers over the flattened angel tucked in the binder pocket, "How could I not?"

                And _dammit_ , Castiel blushes _again._ He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling more than he already is, gathering his things and standing up. "I'll see you tonight Dean," he says in farewell, giving Dean a small smile. Dean is eyeing him, and even through the bruises on his face, Dean looks warm and gentle and so _unlike_ the boy Castiel had come to know since moving to Rail Pass. Maybe this is the real Dean? Maybe the Dean last semester was all just a huge mistake? Maybe Dean is redeeming himself. Maybe Missouri is right.

                No matter - Castiel isn't going to be able to resist anymore. Screw logic. Screw every little voice in his head screaming at him that this is a bad idea. Screw the memory of Dean's fists hitting his face. Screw it all. Defenses be damned, Castiel is tired of telling himself no.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean can't stop smiling for the rest of the day. Even when he passes by The Docks on his way home after school, and sees Alastair out of the corner of his eye watching him walk, he still doesn't stop smiling. He can't stop. Because he gets to hang out with Castiel. It's the first time they've officially hung out. And okay, it isn't a _date_ or anything. But the fact alone that Castiel said yes feels like progress to Dean. Like maybe it's okay to want this, because Cas wants this too, and Dean basically _needs_ Castiel.

                It's pathetic. It's weak. But Dean needs Castiel. Like an epileptic needs seizure medication. Like an addict needs drugs. Like someone deaf needs hearing aids. It may be the most pathetic state Dean ever been in, so vulnerable and needy, but he _craves_ Castiel, _all_ the time. Dean tries to swallow back his fears and reservations about that as he trudges through the woods on his way to his house.

                Sam is in his room doing homework when Dean gets home, and Dean pops in really quick to drop his stuff off and ruffle Sammy's shaggy hair, letting him know that he'll be at Hautley's Bend. Sam doesn't ask too many questions. Dean goes to Hautley's Bend all the time alone, so it's not exactly unusual that he's going now. Dean promises him that he'll be home before dinner at least. He doesn't want to leave Sam alone with John for too terribly long, depending on the mood John's in tonight.

                He briefly steps into the bathroom to replace one of the Band-Aid's on his arm with a new one where his newest cigarette burn oozed through during the day. He grimaces as he sees the sickly yellow-clear discharge coming off of the burns, leaking through a few of the other Band-Aid's. The healing process of the burns is more than disgusting, but it feels too good inflicting them to stop. It feels too good to just give in to the pain, rather than give in to the nagging shit in his head.  

                He stares at the Band-Aids for a long moment, picturing the size and shape of every burn beneath them. A few of them are bigger than the others, some of them uneven because he twitched while holding the tip of the cigarette to his skin. Each of the little round burns has a story behind it, and Dean regards the injuries with equal amounts of hatred and fondness. He hates that it's come to this. And what's even worse - he's gotten to the point where he feels _worse_ after hurting himself, which in turn makes him want to burn himself more. It's an endless cycle, a tragic loop, and it feels impossible to break it.

                As he stares down at the bandages - which happen to be Disney princess themed (a little gift from Dean to Sam as a prank) - he feels that creeping, crawling, prickling sensation in the back of his head. The sensation that makes him want to shower and scrub himself raw. That sensation that makes his chest tighten and his vision tunnel a bit. It's faint this time, the sensation. But it's there. It's the awful feeling he gets right before he needs to burn again. The feeling that things couldn't possibly get worse, but they're going to anyway.

                _Shit_. He can't feel like this if he's going to hang out with Cas. He wants to _be_ there with Castiel. He doesn't want to sit there pressing his thumb into his burns trying to forget about shit he can't do anything about. It's gotten to the point where he's burning himself every couple of days. He's going through Sam's Band-Aid collection like crazy, and spending all his money on cigarettes and more bandages. His arm looks like a beer can that's been shot at one too many times. But he can't stop. Not now at least. Not when things are just starting to get better. He doesn't want his fucked up head to get in the way of the possibilities he has with Castiel.

                Gritting his teeth, he tears his eyes away from the Band-Aids on his arm, and looks up at his reflection in the mirror. Half of his face is smothered in a seeping dark bruise that seems to just keep getting darker as time goes on. John hadn't been in a very good mood on Saturday night, and Dean was still hung over from the party, which made him a bit testy as well. Long story short, Dean's face ended up on the receiving end of John's boxing training. Just another Saturday night in the Winchester household.

                He prods at his bruised, tender eye, wincing a little when he presses too hard. A little spark of anger flares up deep in his gut as he remembers how pissed John had been when he'd given Dean this bruise. Dean isn't exactly a mild-mannered guy, but the thing that pisses him off most in the world is when John gets angry for absolutely no fathomable reason. Dean snorts and shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the mirror and patting his pockets for his pack of cigarettes as he exits the bathroom. He may as well just "get his fix" of pain, so to speak, before he goes and sees Castiel. He's nervous underneath all his excitement about hanging out with Cas after all. Burning will help with the nerves, as it will with little pestering memories in the back of his brain that he doesn't want to think about while he's hanging out at Hautley's Bend.

                He says bye to Sam one more time, running in to ruffle his hair once more just to laugh at the annoyed look on Sam's face. Then he exits the house and slips into the woods briefly, lighting up a cigarette. He makes sure he's out of view, not only from his own house, but from squash-lady's house next door too. If he's going to be fucked up and burn holes in his arm, he doesn't want some sweet old ghost of a lady to watch him doing it any more than he wants Sam watching him doing it.

                He takes a few drags on the smoke, just to feel the soothing flow of the nicotine, but his hands still shake as he rolls up his sleeve and barely hesitates before pressing the tip of his cigarette to his forearm. His hands always shake, no matter how many times he does it. He doesn't know why. They just do.

                Dean has a pretty high tolerance for pain. He's gotten used to the concentrated agony of the cigarette sliding into his flesh, melting his skin away. But it _hurts_ this time, so much that he actually whimpers a little and has to lean back against the tree behind him to keep his knees from buckling. Maybe it hurts so much because he's actually not upset right now. Usually when he burns, he's panicking or feeling so low he counts himself in the same category as the sludge that builds up in the engine of your car. But right now, he's feeling okay. Just okay. And yet he's still burning himself.

                When the cigarette finally flickers and dies, smothered by the skin of his inner forearm, Dean breathes out and pulls it away. The burn is a little uneven from his shaking, making it more of an oval, but it looks the same as all the others. White and flat and numb, with little bits of ash clinging to the dead, burned skin. He lights up his cigarette again to finish it as he stares down at the burn, but he doesn't wait long enough to watch the blister swell into a clear-white globe. He finishes his smoke in a few more drags and then grinds the cigarette out with the heel of his boot, rolling his sleeve down carefully and wandering out of the woods, floating a little in a haze of nicotine and endorphins.

                He slips past Sam's window on the side of the house stealthily, heading down the street towards Hautley's Bend. It's a quiet day out, and there's a faint powdering of snow clinging to the lawns he passes by. It's collected in the gutters in brown-black piles of sludge from the passing cars, and his boots splash through them as he walks down the street. It's a little cold, but it's not too bad in comparison to how cold it _could_ be for a winter day in Vermont. And Dean is actually sweating a little, partially from excitement, and partially from the burning ache in his throbbing forearm.

                He's surprised to find Castiel there already when he gets to Hautley's Bend. Cas is sitting at the one lone, rickety picnic table off beside the sidewalk, folding up some sort of origami creation. There's a pile of paper waiting to be folded sitting next to him, and the day is so still, not a breath of wind, that the papers stay put without anything to hold them down.

                Castiel is so engrossed in his work that he doesn't hear Dean coming up behind him, and he flinches when Dean leans down, placing his hands on the table on either side of Cas and peering over his shoulder to look at the origami he's working on.

                "Is that a wine glass?" he asks, eyeing Castiel's fingers as they fold the origami. Castiel freezes as Dean pops into his line of vision, looking a little startled briefly before relaxing and giving Dean a tiny smile.

                "Special order from one of Bobby's customers," he explains, and Dean watches his lips as he speaks, "She likes wine a bit too much, according to Bobby, so I have to make her an origami wine glass mobile."

                Dean snorts. "Well Bobby likes whiskey a bit too much, so he's one to talk," he replies, giving Castiel a lazy smile. When Castiel turns his head to look at Dean where Dean is leaning over his shoulder, Dean just doesn't even think. He closes the distance between them and presses their lips together, giving Castiel a gentle kiss. Cas goes rigid a little in surprise, but quickly recovers and kisses Dean back for a few brief seconds before they split apart again.

                Dean normally wouldn't have done that so suddenly. He wasn't planning on it. But he just wanted to kiss Castiel. He wanted to kiss him again. He wanted to _forget_. And that's what's so great about Cas. He makes Dean forget all the shit he doesn't want to think about. All Dean can think about when he's with Castiel is how _gorgeous_ his eyes are, and how absolutely wonderful it is to see him smile.

                When the kiss breaks off, Castiel blinks his eyes open, blushing furiously, and Dean grins when he sees it, because he _loves_ when Cas blushes. It brings out his eyes and it's just fucking adorable. He sinks down on the seat next to Cas, facing outwards from the table instead of in so that he can scan his eyes over the park and keep Castiel in his line of vision. He sees Cas lick his lips and look back down at his origami wine glass, a little more flustered than before, which is so very endearing.

                "Have you been here long?" Dean asks, and Cas glances at him once more before continuing to fold his paper.

                "I just got here," he replies, "I wasn't sure when you wanted to meet so I figured I'd just come and work on my origami until you arrived."

                Dean hums in acknowledgment, swiveling around briefly to pluck one of the unfolded papers up from the tabletop. "Why do you do so much origami anyway?" he asks, "It's unusual."

                Castiel huffs a little laugh, blushing again just slightly, and Dean lets his eyes wander over the pink tinge to those pale cheeks. "I taught myself how to do it when I lived in one of my old houses and didn't have a lot of friends," Cas replies, and then seems to hesitate as if he's said too much, glancing sheepishly at Dean before looking down again, "The hobby just stuck. It's something to do with my hands when I'm bored."

                Dean nods a little, fiddling with the paper in his hands, rolling the edges gently, not enough to wrinkle them permanently. "Can I help?" he asks, gesturing to the paper in his hands, and Castiel eyes it before shrugging.

                "Sure," he replies, and Dean grins, turning so one of his legs is under the table and one is outside, and he's facing Castiel on the bench. Castiel plucks up another piece of paper, setting aside his first wine glass, and moving on to the next. Dean copies every fold Cas makes as he does them slow and easy.

                "So how many places have you lived?" Dean asks as they work, "You said 'houses'. As in plural."

                Castiel chews on his lip a little. "Twenty-eight," he replies after he seems to hesitate for a moment, "Including Rail Pass."

                Dean's eyes bug out of his head and he stops, looks at Castiel in disbelief. "Are you serious?" he exclaims, "How is that even possible? Are you sure?"

                Castiel snorts a little, reaching over to correct a fold Dean did wrong on his own origami wine glass. "Yes, I'm sure," he replies, leaving a tingle in Dean's hand when their fingers accidentally brush together briefly, "And you'd have to ask my parents why. It's beyond my comprehension why we move so much."

                Dean gawks at Cas for a moment, blinking in surprise. _Wow_ , twenty-eight different homes? It just seems unreal. After a moment, he looks back down at his work, huffing a little laugh and shaking his head. "How is that going anyway?" he asks, "With your parents? The whole divorce thing?"

                Castiel chews on his lip, and his expression closes off a bit. Dean flushes a little, unsure if he's overstepping his bounds with bringing up Castiel's parents to him. Just because Dean knows about it doesn't mean Cas wants to talk about the divorce. It's not like he would have told Dean if Dean hadn't happened to show up at Hautley's Bend that night and found Cas crying. They don't know each other. They aren't close enough to have little heart-to-hearts about how unfair their lives can be. No matter how much Dean feels like they know each other so well. Like they've known each other for years.

                But Cas surprises him by answering. "There hasn't been any word," he says, "I'm hoping they make a clean break, but things don't always go as planned, so..."

                Dean nods a little, glancing down at Castiel's hands as they make the next fold on his wine glass, and copies the fold on his own origami. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a woman walking with a young girl down the sidewalk to the swings. The little girl hops up onto the swing, making the hinges creak and groan loudly as the mother pushes her. Dean watches for a moment, and the little girl looks over at Dean and waves happily. Dean quirks a little smile and nods back. It's weird seeing someone so happy sitting in the middle of a dilapidated park like Hautley's Bend. It's rusted and old and everything groans with the aching cry of a thousand memories weighing the equipment down. The sky is hanging heavy and low with pasty gray clouds. It's just not a happy environment, but the little girl still grins and giggles. And Dean supposes that it's okay right now, because Castiel is here, and that alone makes him feel happy himself.

                "What about your parents?" Castiel asks suddenly, breaking Dean out of his thoughts. He blinks and looks back over at Cas, finding those blue eyes studying him. He doesn't miss the way Castiel's eyes flicker over the dark, dark bruise across Dean's face and circling his eye in maroon and purple.

                "What?" he asks dumbly, momentarily lost in the way Castiel's eyes reflect the dull clouds in bursting shades of cobalt and cerulean. It's almost _painful_ how beautiful they are. They don't even seem human.

                Cas quirks a little smile, and Dean almost gets lost in it again. "You have me at a disadvantage," he replies, "You know about my parents. What about yours?"

                Dean feels a little lump form in his throat, a familiar lump that he gets every time his parents are brought up. It's instinctual, to want to change the subject, but he likes Castiel. And he doesn't want to turn him away. He's not going to reveal all his personal shit, obviously. He doesn't want to scare this guy away. But he can't brush the question off like he would with any regular Joe. So he looks down at the origami wine glass in his hands, and then sets it aside briefly, fishing in his pocket for his cigarettes to have something to do with his hands. "Uh, well, my dad used to be in the marines, and he was a mechanic for a while," Dean says, lighting up a cigarette and taking a long drag before continuing, "And my mom's uh...no longer in the picture. So it's just the three of us, me, my dad, and Sammy in our house."

                Castiel regards him with a look of remorse. "I'm sorry about your mother," he says, sounding so ridiculously earnest that Dean actually glances up. He takes a drag on his cigarette to try and smother the lump in his throat, shaking his head and quirking a little smile.

                "It's not a big deal," he says, the words like poison on his tongue, because it _is_ a big deal, but hell if he's going to scare Cas away with his sob story the first time they've ever hung out.

                Castiel says nothing more, eyeing the cigarette in Dean's hand, watching his lips wrap around the filter as he takes another drag. Dean notices Cas looking, and grins a little as he exhales. "Have you ever smoked?" he asks, swiftly changing the subject into safer territory.

                Castiel glances up at him, licking his lips. "Weed a couple times," he admits, "But never cigarettes, no."

                Dean holds out the smoke, raising his eyebrows. "You want to try?" he asks, offering the half-smoked cigarette up. Castiel eyes it, licking his lips again.

                "I don't know how," he says sheepishly, his cheeks just _barely_ hinting at a blush again. Dean smiles when he sees it. He can't _help_ it. He's quickly becoming as addicted to the sight of Castiel's cheeks heating with a blush as he is addicted to the feeling of those lips against his.

                "Here," he says, leaning forward a little, "Let me try something. It might help." Castiel cocks his head in confusion as Dean leans closer, his eyes widening just a bit as he watches Dean take another long drag on his cigarette. Dean holds the smoke in his lungs, and can't stop the twinkle in his eyes as he leans forward, cupping Castiel's chin in one hand, tracing his thumb along Cas's bottom lip until he willingly opens his mouth just a bit, seeming to catch on to what Dean is doing. Dean puts his lips within a centimeter of Cas's, and slowly exhales the smoke from his lungs into Cas's mouth. Castiel automatically inhales as Dean exhales, and pulls the smoke into his own lungs, his eyes never leaving Dean's as he does it. When Dean leans back, Cas pauses briefly before exhaling the smoke, and he only coughs a couple times, his eyes watering.

                Dean grins as Cas coughs, chuckling a little. "It goes a little easier when it's second-hand, in my experience," he says, taking another drag as Cas presses his palm flat to his chest like he's feeling the burn there in his lungs. He stifles another cough.

                "That was different," he admits, nodding a little, and he glances at Dean before peering at the smoke, "Can I try again?"

                Dean laughs a little. "Sure," he says, before taking another long drag and leaning forward, shot-gunning the smoke into Castiel's mouth again. This time, he does it slower, his lips brushing Castiel's every couple of seconds as he tries his best to get all of the smoke into his mouth. Castiel inhales like a champ, holding it all in, and this time Dean doesn't pull away as Castiel holds it in his chest for a moment before exhaling, a cloud of cigarette smoke briefly engulfing the minimal space between their faces.

                Still they remain there, staring at each other, and Dean grins a little as Castiel leans forward this time, pressing their lips together. It's a soft kiss, not rushed at all, not rough like at the party. Just sweet, and tasting of cigarettes and skin and chocolate. It doesn't last very long, and Castiel is the first to pull away, exhaling shakily and keeping his eyes closed for a moment, forehead crinkled.

                "Are you okay?" Dean asks, his voice low since their faces are only an inch or so apart.

                Castiel blinks his eyes open, staring at Dean for a second. "I've just...I've never done anything like this before," he admits, blushing yet again. Dean doesn't think he'll _ever_ get tired of that blush.

                "You've never kissed anyone, or you've never shot-gunned smoke?" Dean asks, not wanting to pull away, but doing so just a bit when he sees the mother with her young daughter at the swing set glaring at their public display of affection out of the corner of his eye. Normally he wouldn't care, but he's not sure if Castiel is the type of guy who likes to lock lips in front of other people. And he doesn't want to embarrass Cas.

                "The kissing. Well, the smoking too, but...the kissing," Castiel replies, "I mean...I've kissed before, when I was young. But not like..." He hesitates, blushing, and then licks his pale lips, "And at the party, that was my first...I mean, I've never done anything like that. I've never gone any further than kissing."

                Dean cocks his head to the side, actually finding that hard to believe. How could someone as beautiful as Castiel not have any experience? "You're saying you're a virgin?" he asks, and Castiel blushes even harder. Dean eyes the rosy flush to those milky cheeks. Before he even thinks about it, he reaches up and trails his fingertips across the hot red skin briefly before taking another drag on his cigarette. He wonders if that blush spreads to Cas's chest when he's aroused. He was too drunk at the party to notice.

                Castiel nods, swallowing hard, his throat rippling as he does so. "I've never...done that before. Ever."

                Dean stares at him for a moment, unable to stop the tiny smile that touches the corner of his mouth. "I was your first?" he asks, feeling simultaneously thrilled and guilty all at once. Does he deserve to be _anyone's_ first? "Was it everything you hoped it would be?"

                Castiel bites his lip in embarrassment, but still smiles a little at Dean. "Well, I think it's pretty obvious that I enjoyed myself," he replies with a raised eyebrow, and Dean chuckles, taking one last drag on his cigarette and stubbing it out on the picnic table, flicking the butt away and picking up another piece of paper to start folding another origami wine glass. Castiel leans back too, grabbing another piece of paper as well.

                "Any particular reason you're still a virgin?" Dean asks, glancing up at him, "Is it some sort of religious thing?"

                Castiel huffs a humorless laugh. "No," he replies, "I've just never had the occasion. We always moved before I could get to know anyone well enough to do anything like that."

                Dean cocks his head to the side. "You don't know me very well," he points out, and Castiel looks up at him before shrugging a bit.

                "Yeah but..." he says, licking his dry lips, "You're different. It didn't feel weird with you. It just felt...good."

                Dean blinks at him, and actually feels _himself_ blushing this time. He smiles a little, and lowers his eyes, focusing on his task of shaping a wine glass from the paper. They're quiet for a few minutes, just sitting there listening to the groan of the swings as the little girl is pushed by her mother on them. Apart from that, there's total silence in the dead stillness of the world today. The only other noise is Dean's heartbeat in his ears, increasingly faster the longer he's around Castiel, because Cas just has that effect on him.

                Somewhere deep in the woods, a twig cracks, overly loud in the silence, and Dean wonders if there's some sort of animal lurking in the shadows out there, watching them. Maybe it's Elsa Hautley. He's heard she haunts these woods, although that's a silly thought.

                "Hey Dean?" Castiel asks a few minutes later. Dean is surprised that the silence is so comfortable. It's not awkward at all. It feels good to just _be_ here with Cas, even if they aren't talking. He glances up at him.

                "Yeah?"

                Cas looks at him, his throat rippling a little as he swallows, his hands aimlessly fiddling with the new origami wine glass he's created. "Why..." he begins, and then licks his lips and continues, "Why did you put all that music on my iPod?"

                Dean immediately drops his eyes as he feels embarrassment prickle the hairs at the nape of his neck. He doesn't want to think about the day he got Castiel's iPod back from Zach's house. It was the same day he had Castiel half-naked and half-dead in his bathtub. It was the same day he woke up with bloody knuckles and a guilt-heavy heart. The knuckles healed, but the guilt has never gone away. "How did you know it was me?" he asks.

                Castiel huffs a little breath. "Who else would do that?" he asks, and Dean pops his eyebrows, shrugging a bit.

                "I guess...I don't know," he says, "It was just some sort of attempt at an apology. Everyone likes music so...I mean, what else could I possibly have given you to even come _close_ to saying sorry for what I did?"

                Castiel glances down, chewing on his lip. "I told you, you don't have to apologize," he says, "But the music is nice. It's different from what I've listened to before. I like it."

                Dean allows a small smile. "Yeah?" he says, "Do you have any favorites?"

                Castiel chuckles a little. "There are some Led Zeppelin songs that I really like," he replies, "And I listen to _Learning To Fly_ by Pink Floyd almost every night."

                Dean can't help it. His eyes light up and a grin splits his face. "Really?" he asks, "That's awesome! I love that song."

                Castiel smiles when he sees how much Dean is smiling, and he nods a little. "It's really beautiful," he says, "I like your music a lot."

                Dean chuckles, looking down and setting his origami wine glass aside, reaching for another piece of paper. He's gotten the hang of it now - he doesn't even have to watch Castiel's hands folding the paper anymore to know the steps. He's always been a quick learner. He spends the next several minutes folding up another wine glass as his mind goes over and over all the horrible things he's done to Castiel. The guilt he feels is unbearable, to the point where he almost wants to press his thumb into his cigarette burns, just to feel something else. Something other than this awful guilt. How could he _do_ that to Castiel?

                How could Dean be so fucking _horrible_? He stops folding his paper, just fiddling with the half-formed origami as his mind reels a bit. He pulls in a long breath, holding it and then releasing it slowly, chewing on his own lip. He looks up to find that Castiel is staring at him, his eyes a little concerned, and Dean realizes that he must look a little troubled, what with all these crappy guilt-ridden thoughts running through his brain. But he doesn't _deserve_ the concern Castiel is showing him right now. He doesn't deserve to be comforted for his guilt or forgiven for what he did to Castiel. Cas should be punching him in the fucking face. Not kissing him. Not regarding him with sympathy.

                "I'm so sorry Cas," he says before he can chicken out and stop himself from apologizing, "For the woods. For everything we did to you last semester."

                Castiel shakes his head immediately. "Dean, please don't apologize," he says, "I know already. I know you're sorry, but you don't need-"

                "I _do_ need to apologize Cas," Dean insists, cutting him off, because _how can Castiel even say that_? How can he not think that Dean owes him an apology, at _least_? "You could have died out in those woods that night. And I just _left_ you there on the ground. I mean you get that right?"

                Castiel glances down, fiddling with his own origami wine glass, picking at it with his blunt fingernails for a moment in silence. "I saw a deer," he says, after a long few seconds, licking his lips, "When I was out in the woods that night. There was this deer that kept coming up to me and licking my face."

                Dean stares at him for a moment, his mouth parted slightly, brow furrowed. He wants to keep groveling and apologizing, but he also just doesn't know what to say. _How_ is he supposed to apologize when Cas doesn't want to hear it? How can he make this right? He licks his lips and exhales once. "I saw the deer too," he replies, and Cas's eyes snap up at that, "It was there when I found you, just chilling there like a statue. It ran off when I picked you up."

                Castiel quirks a tiny smile, to Dean's surprise. "I thought it left, but it stayed all that time," he muses to himself, fiddling with his origami, lost in thought. He's silent for another few seconds again, and then he sighs and looks up at Dean. "I don't want you to be sorry," he says, and then pauses for a moment before continuing with a swallow, "I want you to be better...I don't know if that's too much to ask since we haven't known each other that long, but...if you want to make it up to me somehow, just...be better."

Dean stares at him with round eyes, swallowing once past his dry throat, feeling guilty and confused and overwhelmed a bit. He's very aware that he's not a good person. It's pretty much a well-known fact. So how is he supposed to _start_ being good? How is he supposed to be better? He hasn't the first clue how to be a good person. He's been bad so long that it's just his nature. How's a wolf supposed to change into a lamb?

                He swallows and looks down, rubbing his forearm against his side a bit just to _slightly_ disturb the burns, just to give himself a _little_ dose of pain to stave off the panic. He jumps a little when Castiel reaches down and places a hand over his. Cas's hand is soft and cold in the winter afternoon. But it sends warmth through Dean's body, and even the slightest touch makes his dick twitch in his pants. He resolutely ignores his sudden unavoidable arousal, and looks back up at Castiel when he touches him.

                Cas doesn't say anything, and neither does Dean. Dean wonders if he was _about_ to, but something catches Castiel's eye behind Dean and his forehead crinkles in confusion. "Isn't that your brother?" he asks, and Dean's head snaps around, spotting Sam walking towards Hautley's Bend, several dozen yards away.

                "Sammy?" Dean asks, more to himself under his breath than anything.

                "He's...is he bleeding?" Castiel asks, squinting at Sam as he gets closer, and Dean watches as Sam looks up. There's a heavy trail of blood leaking out of his left nostril. _Damn it_.

                "Fuck," he curses under his breath, pushing himself to his feet, "I'll be right back." He shoots Cas an apologetic look and then crosses the dead lawn as Sam draws closer. Sammy's cheeks are dry, so he hasn't been crying, thank Christ, but his nose is still bleeding, dripping down onto the front of his dorky navy t-shirt with a dog on it.

                Dean kneels down in front of Sam when he reaches him, immediately prodding at his face where he sees a swelling lump on his brother's jaw. Sam winces and keeps his eyes down. "Sorry," he says instantly, "I didn't want to stay there. I didn't know where else to go."

                "Dad?" Dean asks, already knowing the answer, and Sam nods exhaustedly. His hair is rumpled, and Dean reaches up to smooth it down a bit before pushing himself to his feet. He wonders what pissed John off _this_ time. "Don't be sorry Sammy, you didn't do anything wrong," he says, using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe some of the half-dried blood off of Sam's face from his nosebleed. More blood begins to run out of his nose instantly, and Dean pulls Sam's hand up. "Pinch that," he says, "We can go to Bobby's and get you cleaned up." Sam pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, plugging up the blood for now.

                "Is that Castiel?" he asks, his voice high-pitched and squeaky with his nose plugged as he peers around Dean to where Cas is still sitting at the table several meters away.

                Dean flushes a little and rolls his eyes. "None of your business," he replies with a little sly grin, turning and walking back towards the picnic table where Castiel is sitting watching them curiously. Sam follows him.

                "I should've known you were meeting him here," Sam teases, snorting a little in the back of his throat, and then coughing as he inhales a little bit of blood. Dean glances down at him once, biting his lip to keep from smiling too much.

                "Before you ask - _no_ , I won't be giving you any dirty details," he says to Sam, and Sam rolls his eyes, made more difficult by his hand clutching his bloody nose.

                "Yeah, yeah, whatever," he says, "You'll cave at some point."

                Dean sneers down at Sam, and they approach the picnic table. "Cas, I'm sorry, I gotta hit the road," Dean says, actually feeling a pull of regret inside. The last thing he wants is to leave now. He wants to just be here with Castiel, locked in this perfect afternoon forever. That sounds like pure bliss, even if Dean's guilt is eating him up inside.

                Castiel cocks his head to the side. "Is everything alright?" he asks, glancing at Sam, who's hanging back a few steps, "Hello Sam."

                "Hey Castiel," Sam says, giving and awkward little half-wave with his free hand, "Good to see you again."

                "Everything's fine," Dean says, quirking a little smile as Castiel stands up from where he's sitting, coming forward just a step, "Sam has allergies. He just gets bloody noses all the time." The excuse doesn't sound convincing, even to Dean, and he winces, licking his lips and stepping forward, brushing it off for now.

                He glances back at Sam and raises his eyebrows at him expectantly. "Turn around," he orders, and Sam glares at him once, rolling his eyes and turning his back on Castiel and Dean. Dean seizes the opportunity and quickly leans forward, cupping Castiel's face in his hands and planting a long, lingering kiss on his lips. Castiel kisses him back instantly this time, his hands coming up and resting on Dean's sides. The kiss is quiet and doesn't last very long since Sam is right there ten feet away, but it's satisfying as hell, just like every kiss from Castiel is satisfying as hell.

                They pull apart too soon, and Dean rests his forehead against Castiel's for a second, huffing a little sigh and smiling. "Thank you for meeting me here," he says, and Castiel wraps his hands one around each of Dean's wrists, giving them a small squeeze.

                "We'll see each other again sometime," he says, and Dean feels a little flutter in his stomach, because Castiel actually sounds sincere, like he _wants_ to spend time with Dean again, even though all they really did today was talk for an hour or so and sit here doing origami. But somehow, it was the best afternoon Dean has had in a really long time.

                He reluctantly pulls away from Castiel, and takes a step back, giving him a small smile. "Bye," he says quietly, his eyes lingers on those blue ones for just a moment longer before he sighs and turns away, walking over to Sam and looping an arm around his small shoulders to lead him away as Sam makes an inconspicuous gagging noise about the kiss Dean and Cas just shared.

                Dean shoves his head a little, snorting, but then he pauses and stops walking for just a moment, looking back at Castiel where Cas is still standing there watching after them. He hesitates, and then just swallows back his reservations for a moment. "Are we friends?" he asks, looking at Castiel, and Cas smiles.

                He nods once to Dean. "We're friends," he replies, and Dean feels a tiny smile peel itself across his face as relief spills over in his chest. With that, he gives Castiel one last lingering look, and turns away, pulling Sammy along as they head down the street towards the Singer household.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean jolts awake with a start in the middle of the night. There no reason as to why. He just wakes up next to Sam in the guest bedroom at Bobby and Ellen's house, and he can't fall back asleep, no matter how hard he tries. He stares at the ceiling, mostly thinking about Castiel, but also craving a cigarette. After he lays there for a good thirty minutes or so, just thinking, his body half-asleep but his brain spinning in circles, he carefully climbs out of the bed, being as quiet as he can so as not to wake Sam.

                He's already dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved ratty t-shirt. He has to wear long sleeves when he's sleeping next to Sam. Lord knows Sam waking up in the middle of the night and seeing Dean's mutilated arm is the _last_ thing Dean needs right now.

                He grabs his cigarettes and slips out of the guest room, stepping out into the garage. It's too cold in the middle of the night to be outside smoking, but occasionally Bobby sneaks cigars in the garage when Ellen isn't home, so everything out here reeks of fine tendrils of smoke anyway. Dean plops down on the couch over in the corner of the garage. The Singer's only have one car, which is Bobby's truck, and the other half of their garage is like a man-cave. There's an old TV against the wall with antennae's that are bent and don't really work, and the couch Dean is sitting on is ripped and old, but it's clean and smells of cigars and Old Spice and whiskey, just like Bobby.

                It's relaxing out here, and even though the garage is cold in the middle of the night like this, it's a lot warmer than it would have been outside smoking his cigarette, so Dean just curls his bare toes and sucks it up. He stares at the washer and dryer pushed up against the back wall as he lights up a cigarette and takes a tired drag on it, licking his dry lips, mouth a little pasty from sleep. He's tired, but there's no way he's getting back to sleep tonight. This happens sometimes. He'll just wake up, and not be able to go back to sleep, at all. But on the bright side - you can't have nightmares while you're awake, right? At least he has that going for him.

                He takes several long drags on his cigarette, just staring off aimlessly into the garage, rubbing the soles of his feet against the knobby carpet laid out on this side of the garage. There's one tiny, dim light filling the space, and although it's pretty dark, it's comforting. This is a nice atmosphere. It's quiet, and peaceful, and honestly, Dean is so tired that he just doesn't have any control or awareness of his body right now.

                That's why it takes him longer than usual to notice that he's half-hard in his pants, for seemingly _no_ reason. Sometimes it just fucking sucks being a guy, popping boners at the most inexplicable of times. He looks down at the tent in his sweatpants as he pulls in another drag on his cigarette. He supposes it's because he was thinking about Castiel for a while there after he woke up. Thinking about Cas never fails to get him going.

                But Dean still hasn't _once_ jerked off without vomiting or panicking since the incident at Ghost Town. He's tried - oh _lord_ has he tried - but to no avail. He stares at his tented pants, willing his hardening dick to go down. He's certain that at some point, his balls are just going to fall off, they're so blue. He needs to _come_ for Christ's sake. It isn't even a _pleasure_ thing anymore. It's _survival_. He's actually quite literally convinced that going this long without successfully jerking off is really fucking unhealthy.

                But he _can't_. Ever since Ghost Town...he just can't. It's pathetic, and terrible, and just all kinds of fucked up, but he can't.

                Only, right now, he wants to try. It's late at night, possibly even early morning. He's tired, his mind working at half-power right now, his body loose and pliant. And maybe that's what he needs. To be tired like this to the point where maybe he'll be too tired to vomit once he jerks off, or _while_ he's jerking off. He's too tired to panic right now. He's even too tired to put his cigarette out on his arm right now. Maybe masturbating with _work_ right now.

                He needs to get the fuck over this sometime. It's almost the end of January. Alastair attacked him at the end of November. That's _two months_ he's had to just _get over it_. He should be over it by now. He should have moved on. He shouldn't be scared when Castiel so much as tries to _touch_ him at a party. He shouldn't get nauseous every time he wants to jerk himself off. He shouldn't _be_ like this. He should be _fine_ by now. Why isn't he fine? He's had plenty of time.

                Dean takes one last drag on his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in frustration and grinding the cigarette out on the cement wall behind him, brushing the ashes away and tossing the butt in the trash can near the TV. He stares down at his tented pants for another moment, feeling his heart pulsing slowly, but achingly, willing him to just go back to sleep and forget about his erection.

                But he shouldn't. He needs to heal. He needs to get over what happened at Ghost Town. He needs to just jerk off _once_ without sniffling like a little wimp. Because it's pathetic. What teenage boy in the history of _ever_ hasn't been able to just jerk off?

                He licks his dry lips, tasting the menthol lingering from his smoke, and he reaches his shaking hands out, resolutely _ignoring_ the fact that he's even shaking in the first place. He peels the front of his sweats down enough to free his burgeoning erection, just running his fingertips up and down the side of the velvety flesh for a moment. He's hard, but it's mostly just physical. Mentally, he's not really into it. He's not exactly turned on right now. Touching himself _feels_ good right now, obviously, but there's a low boiling churn in his gut that makes him want to run and vomit and then take a four-hour-long shower. He feels _dirty_.

                But he shoves those thoughts aside and grips the cushion of the couch in one hand, wrapping his other hand around his dick, and sliding up and down once, testing the waters, like dipping your toes into a swimming pool. When his hand catches under the head and slides over the most sensitive part of his dick, Dean groans, biting his lip to keep from making too much noise. He does it again, slower, lingering there and teasing his thumb under the head, swiping it over the slit as the first bead of precome rolls off the tip.

                He swallows hard, swallows the bile rising in his throat, clenches his stomach to stave off the nauseous churning inside, and he forces himself to continue. He ignores the phantom pains that are just beginning to flare up in his side, ignores the memory of teeth biting into the back of his shoulder, ignores the memory of someone _else's_ hand squeezing _too much, too hard_ around his shaft and leaving finger-shaped bruises there.

                He closes his eyes, furrowing his brow and leaning his head back against the backrest of the couch, setting up a steady rhythm, twisting his hand a little on the upstroke and lingering near the head. Despite the nausea he feels seeping from his pores, he can also feel a burning low in his abdomen, coiling and building slowly, _so slowly_ , as his impending orgasm begins to rise. But it still feels horrible and wrong and dirty and disgusting. He feels used and sick and wrung out.

                He feels like someone chewed him up and spit him out alive. And why should he feel this way? It's stupid. Why does he have to feel this way? Why can't he just be _normal_?

                He swallows back any and all thoughts about Alastair and Ghost Town and self-loathing. He clears his mind as best he can. Of course, the only way to do that is to think about Castiel, because when he thinks about Cas, it consumes him. So he thinks about Castiel drunk at that party in Johnson. He thinks about the hot, heavy girth of Castiel's cock resting on Dean's tongue, thinks about the way it felt so solid and _alive_ as it slid satisfyingly down Dean's throat. Dean thinks about the irresistible noises Castiel made, audible even over the loud music in that closet in Bela Talbot's mansion.

                He thinks about the way Castiel gripped his hair so tightly, so desperately, pulling so hard Dean's scalp is still twinging a bit in some places a few days later. He thinks about swallowing Castiel down once more as Castiel came, his dick twitching in Dean's throat, spilling so deep he could barely taste the salty-sweet release. He thinks about how drained Cas was afterwards, and how he'd still kissed him lazily, those lips swollen and kiss-chapped and bruised.

                Dean grips the couch cushion tighter as he feels his orgasm building in his gut, and he huffs a few times, struggling to breathe as his muscles tense and clench in anticipation of his release. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, just replaying the noises Castiel made while Dean was sucking him off over and over in his head. Those downright _filthy_ moans that came out of a shy guy like Castiel. Dean _never_ expected Cas to be so vocal. But it was a welcome surprise.

                Dean clings to those memories, forcefully ignoring much more unsavory memories in their favor. _He will_ not _vomit._ That's just what he keeps telling himself. He won't get sick. He won't panic. He won't burn himself. He won't do any of those things. He's going to come, and it's going to be awesome, and then he's going to go back to bed since he has to be awake soon for school. He's going to do that, and he's going to succeed at it, and no crawling, nasty feeling is going to claw at the back of his brain and nag him like it always does.

                He's so fucking tired of being broken.

                He gathers more precome as a few more blots roll off the tip of his dick, lifting his hips a little off the couch to thrust into the circle of his fingers, moaning deep and low in his chest before he manages to stifle it. He continues to thrust into his own hand like that, stripping wet arousal up and down his shaft and over the head at a more rapid pace, his arm actually aching a little since this has been going on for longer than it should have.

                Eventually though, the inevitable happens, and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly, gasping and quickly biting into his bicep of his free arm to muffle his moan as he shoots his release up and over his hand and pant leg. His muscles contract rhythmically as he continues to spurt a few more times, running his hand slower and slower up and down his shaft, working himself through the climax before he eventually just collapses back against the couch, breathing hard, his arm aching where he bit it, his body melting post-orgasm.

                He stares down at his dick as it softens, come staining his sweatpants and striped across the back of his hand and his fingers. He feels familiar nausea boiling low in his gut, but he grits his teeth and swallows convulsively, forcing himself not to vomit. He will _not_ puke. He will _not_. He forces his brain to think about Castiel, to think about his cobalt eyes. To think about those pale, kiss-bruised lips, to think about the pink blush to his skin when he gets flustered and adorable. Dean will _not_ puke.

                He sniffs once, and it's only then that he realizes he's crying. They're quiet tears, just a couple of them slipping down his cheeks silently, overflowing as his hands start to shake again. He doesn't know if he's crying from relief or disgust, because he still feels dirty and horrible, and he still feels those phantom pains in his side and around his dick. But he hasn't thrown up. So maybe things are getting better? Maybe he's not broken?

                He tucks himself back into his pants with shaking hands, and sucks in a few breaths, leaning forward and covering his face with his hands, not even caring that he's smearing a little bit of come onto his tear-stained cheek, because he's just trying to stop himself from crying anymore. He grits his teeth as he feels a few more tears slip out of his eyes, and he just tries to focus on Castiel's face in his mind. Tries to focus on that, and ignore everything else.

                It takes him a long time to calm down, his heart throbbing painfully in his chest, his body shaking, but eventually he stops crying, and just sits there with his eyes closed and his face buried in his hands, wishing he could just go back and kill Alastair when he had the chance, and kiss Castiel until they were both drunk on it. He wishes he could just go back.

                Pulling in a trembling breath, Dean pushes himself up from the couch, wobbling a little on his shaking legs, and he makes his way back into the house. He quietly slips into the guest bathroom and takes a quick shower to wash away the come and tears and snot covering him. He slides back into his long-sleeved Henley, but pulls on his jeans since his sweatpants are soiled before crawling back into bed next to Sam. He shouldn't, but he reaches out anyway, wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist like he always does when he wants to feel better.

                Sam snuffles in his sleep, but otherwise doesn't stir, so Dean holds onto his wrist loosely and closes his eyes, his brain at war with evil and good, with thoughts of Alastair vs. thoughts of Castiel. It's the dark side of Dean's brain vs. the very, _very_ minuscule light side, and he's honestly not too sure which side is going to win this war.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys ~  
> I'm so sorry this chapter took SO long to be posted! I have a plethora of excuses (and they're all good ones, I swear), but what it basically boils down to is that I just started school and work again, so I've been super busy which snuffed out my muse. Oh, and I have a roommate who snores so loud she rivals the most powerful of lawn mowers, so I haven't gotten much sleep lately as you can imagine hahaha.   
> But anyway, from now on, I'll try my damndest to have each chapter posted every few days at most, depending on how busy I am. To those who are worried, I PROMISE I won't abandon this fic (unless I unfortunately and unexpectedly die) so don't be afraid if it takes me a little longer than usual to post. I'm just a busy human, and sometimes my writing muse is a total asshole hahaha  
> Please don't hate me! <3 Thanks for hanging in there guys :)


	18. Amor Fati

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just started using my Tumblr for the first time in, well, ever. I still have no idea how to use it, but one of my roommates said she'd teach me, so for now it's pretty dormant, until I learn more. However, I had some people asking about whether I have one or not, so if you're at all interested in following me, my username on there is [coldinthestudio](http://coldinthestudio.tumblr.com/) . I believe I already have a few of you on there, but I'm down to follow some more of you guys too :)  
> Anyways, enjoy the chapter :) Apologies for typos, and all that jazz. <3

                Dean has an interesting idea of heaven. It consists of a house. It's just one small house, but it has everything in it that he's ever loved in his life. In the small space between those four walls, he has Sammy, and his mother alive and well, and the John Winchester his father was before The Accident. He has the Impala parked in the living room, because no good car should have to spend the night out in the cold. He has Star Wars and Star Trek and an entire pantry of pie and bacon cheeseburgers.

                And he has Castiel. He's decided that. His idea of heaven would include Castiel. But not just that. It would include Castiel being there and being _his_ , and Dean wouldn't have open burns on his forearm, and he wouldn't be afraid of physical pleasure, and he could just hold Castiel and smell that sandalwood and champagne scent in his hair. And Dean would be happy.

                That's what heaven is, right? Happiness?

                But deep down, Dean doesn't really believe in heaven. Not in the literal sense of the word. Maybe people in their lives experience _moments_ of heaven. Heaven isn't a place you go. It's not eternal. It's not some finish line. It's a series of moments scattered throughout your life like slices of paradise. Like when Dean and Sam burned down that field on the Fourth of July the year they took the road trip to Wyoming to buy fireworks. That was a little bit of heaven. Dean had been in heaven that night. It was perfection.

                And the first kiss Dean shared with Castiel at Hautley's Bend. He'd been in heaven there too. In fact, he kind of feels like he's in heaven every time he's with Castiel. And isn't that the way it's supposed to feel? When you know you've found someone _really_ fucking special? Someone who you're not too sure you could live without? Dean doesn't really know what love looks like, apart from what he remembers of how John and Mary used to look at each other before The Accident. The only love Dean's experienced before is the love he feels for Sammy, and that's _definitely_ not the same kind of love as what he could potentially one day feel for Castiel.

                But he recognizes that it's _possible_. Maybe it's possible for Dean to keep experiencing little bits and pieces and moments of heaven with Castiel. Maybe he doesn't have to be so scared. Because he's becoming equally as addicted to these euphoric rushes of _paradise_ when he's with Castiel, as he is addicted to burning his arm, or nicotine.

                He wakes up on Tuesday morning in Bobby's guest room with a heavy head. He'd been up for most of the night being a big fat crying baby over jerking off in Bobby's garage, and now it's catching up to him, the sleep-deprivation. He blinks his gummy eyes open, smacking his lips a couple times and staring at the ceiling, his face crusty with tears he must have shed sometime in his sleep. His hand is still wrapped around Sam's wrist, and Sam is snoring unattractively into his pillow next to him, dead to the world. Dean envies how Sam can sleep through a fucking hurricane.

                He turns his head, wincing at the soreness in his stiff neck as he squints at the clock on the nightstand. It's five minutes until seven, and Sam's alarm is set for seven exactly. Dean groans a little, scrubbing a hand down his stubbly face. He doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to go to school. He just wants to lay here and feel _heavy_. Dean has felt like this for a while - heavy. It's like his soul is exhausted. Every movement takes just a _little_ more effort than it used to. It's harder and harder each day to swing his feet out of bed and get up for another day of school. He has no idea what to call it, this heaviness. But it's there, and it's potent, and it won't go away. The only thing that seems to make it go away is burning himself. Well that, and Castiel.

                But he forces himself to move anyway. He carefully peels his hand away from Sam's wrist, making sure not to wake him, and he reaches across his brother to turn off his alarm before it rings. He'll let Sammy sleep in for an extra fifteen minutes this morning. Coughing a little, he slides his exhausted limbs out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom, closing the door before turning on the light and squinting at himself in the mirror. He went to sleep with his hair wet, so it's sticking up in odd angles every which way.

                He reaches up and smoothes it down a bit, giving up after a second when many of the little tufts just pop back up again. He grabs his toothbrush - he and Sam leave extra toothbrushes here since they're here so much - and brushes his teeth exhaustedly, sighing around the bristles and spitting red cinnamon-flavored toothpaste into the sink. He stares at it as it washes down the drain, and then splashes his face once to rinse away the crusty salt from his tears. His arm throbs, and he pulls up his sleeve, eyeing the healing burns. He fishes under the sink and finds regular tan Band-Aids, sticking some over the worst of his healing burns before pulling his sleeve back down and wandering out of the guest room downstairs to the kitchen.

                Bobby is at the counter buttering some toast and he glances back when he hears Dean's bare feet shuffling into the room.

                "Mornin' sunshine," Bobby drawls sarcastically when he sees the dark circles under Dean's eyes.

                Dean grunts in reply, walking up next to Bobby. Bobby doesn't ask any questions, just hands Dean a bagel. Dean lifts the corner of his mouth in thanks, peeling the bagel apart and popping the two halves into the toaster to warm up a little.

                "So what's new with you and your boy Castiel?" Bobby asks, and Dean glares at him through a yawn, absentmindedly rubbing his burned arm under his sleeve. It's raw today, throbbing slightly in pain.

                "Like I'm gonna tell you," Dean replies, and Bobby rolls his eyes, handing Dean a knife and some cream cheese.

                "I give you free bagels, and this is how you repay me?" Bobby snorts, "Withholding information."

                Dean shakes his head, running a hand through his messy hair. "I don't know what we are Bobby," he says, "I like him. That's it."

                Bobby grunts in acknowledgement. "Well no more macking in my shop," he chuckles, "Save that for private."

                Dean snorts. "It was one time," he replies.

                Bobby hums and rolls his eyes again, grabbing a paper towel for his toast and wrapping it up before giving Dean a pat on the back in farewell. Dean stares at the red-hot coils inside the toaster as he listens to Bobby's footsteps exiting the house into the garage. The garage door hums subtly as it opens, and a minute later, Dean hears the rumble of Bobby's truck starting up, and the crunch of the tires over gravel as it backs down the driveway.

                Dean's bagel pops up a couple minutes later, and he spreads cream cheese on both halves before wandering back up to the guest room where Sam is still snoring. He plops down on the bed, chewing a bite of bagel, and nudges Sam a few times before his brother finally snuffles a bit and blinks his eyes open. Dean holds out the other half of his bagel to Sam, and his brother groans. He only lifts his head barely, and cranes his neck forward, biting into the bagel in Dean's hands without even grabbing it. Dean snorts and lets it go, and Sam unburies his arm from under the blankets, rolling onto his stomach and taking the bagel out of his mouth, chewing his bite.

                They sit there and eat in tired silence, and when Sam finishes his half of the bagel, he licks the remaining cream cheese off his lips and lets his head fall back to his pillow. Dean kicks him when his eyes slip closed.

                "Rise and shine Sammy," he says around his last mouthful of food, "We gotta go home and pick up your backpack before school."

                Sam's groan is muffled into his pillow, and he only opens his eyes when Dean kicks him once more. It takes one more kick before Sam slaps Dean's leg, much to Dean's amusement, and rolls out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom with his messy hair and overly-large pajamas on his skinny twelve-year-old body. Dean listens to the door click shut, and a moment later the water turns on as Sam brushes his teeth and washes his face.

                Dean digs his bare feet into the blankets where they're still warm. The Singer's house is never cold, not like Sam and Dean's house. It's always comfortable, not too hot or cold. Dean kind of just wants to burrow back under the covers and go to sleep again, but he can't. So he just sits there and daydreams about it for a while. He daydreams not only about going back to sleep, but also about having Cas there next to him, and wallowing in the heat of his body.

                He really just wants to see Castiel. He doesn't want to have to wait until lunch today, only to sit at a table across the cafeteria and do nothing but stare at him with his friends. He doesn't want to have to wait until math class before he can talk to Cas again. It's like every second he's away from Castiel, the harder it is to resist him. He misses Cas the second they say goodbye. It's stupid.

                Maybe he can try to see Cas this morning. He's not sure if that's weird or stalker-like, but Cas said they were friends, right? So it's not weird to maybe walk to school with him, is it? Dean runs his hand through his messy hair again and sighs, chewing on his lip as he climbs out of bed and walks over to the bathroom. He hip-checks Sam out of the way of the sink, and Sam shoves him back with a little whiny grumble. Dean snorts and runs some water over his hand, smoothing his messy hair down a bit before smacking Sam on the back.

                "Come on, let's hit the road," he says, "You're gonna be late as it is."

                While Sam finishes getting ready, Dean smoothes out the blankets on the bed, making it as best he knows how so that Ellen won't have to deal with it later. Then he and Sam wander out of the house, saying bye to Jo, who's sitting in front of the TV in the living room eating cereal for breakfast, already dressed and ready for school.

                "I didn't get all my homework done," Sam grumbles as they head down the street.

                "Why not?" Dean asks, and Sam rolls his eyes.

                "Dad," he replies, "And I think he broke the last plate in the kitchen when he got home yesterday."

                Dean sighs. He's too tired right now to care. Maybe he can steal some plastic trays from the cafeteria to replace the broken dishes in their kitchen. "Are you gonna get in trouble for not having your homework done?" he asks Sam.

                His brother shrugs. "Mrs. Chandler is nice, and I think she likes me, so I'm not too worried about it. But still."

                "Isn't she the one that gave you that project about our family tree or whatever?" Dean asks, and Sam nods, "How's that going?"

                "I haven't had a chance to do any more research," Sam says, "I can't think of anywhere else to look besides dad's closet in all those boxes."

                Dean hums a little. "You know we have photo albums and stuff in the attic I think, if you wanted to check those out. There might be some scrapbooks up there or something."

                Sam looks up at him. "Really?"

                "Yeah," Dean replies, "And maybe you can get in touch with Gordon's dad."

                "Your friend Gordon?"

                Dean grits his teeth a little. They're not really _friends_ anymore, he supposes, but whatever. "Yeah," he replies, "His dad works at the police station, and I'll bet he can dig up some old records for you. Maybe you can find out whether anyone in our family ever did time or something."

                Sam chews his lip as he ponders that. "Yeah, that sounds good," he says, itching his stomach, "Can you still tell me a little about mom?"

                Dean looks down at his boots clomping over the pavement as they pass by Hautley's Bend. "Yeah," he says after a moment, "I'll tell you a bit about her."

                Sam eyes him for a moment, and then says nothing more. They walk the rest of the way home in silence. Dean enters their house first, being as quiet as possible. They find John passed out snoring on the couch, and Dean sends Sam back to their rooms to grab their backpacks while he pulls the half-empty beer bottle out of his dad's hand and covers him in Mary's blanket draped over the back of the couch. He wanders into the kitchen and finds their last plate broken on the floor, and he rolls his eyes, leaving it there for now and grabbing his backpack from Sam's hands as he comes back down the hall.

                They head out the front door together, and Dean doesn't bother locking it behind himself. He sees Sammy off with a ruffle of his shaggy hair, and Sam snorts, smoothing it back down and slinging his backpack onto his skinny shoulders, wandering down the street towards the K-8 school. Dean watches him walk until Sam disappears around the corner, and then he sighs, turning and walking the opposite direction. He doesn't immediately head to the woods. He travels down the street towards where he remembers Castiel's house is. He may as well try to see if Cas is there, right?

                It takes him less than ten minutes to get there, and just like the last time he'd taken the long way to school, Castiel is just stepping out of his house with his sister Anna when Dean arrives. Only this time, Dean doesn't have to dive down and hide behind a car in order to not be spotted. He's a healthy amount of nervous just like he always is around Cas, but he also gets that excited flutter in his chest when he sees Castiel bundled up in his overly-baggy clothes and an old scarf, dark hair shower-damp and sticking up every which way like he'd been in a hurry to get ready this morning.

                Dean grips the straps of his backpack and wanders up to the edge of Castiel's front lawn, belatedly realizing that he didn't even change his clothes before he left his house. _Great_ , that's not disgusting at _all_. Before Cas and Anna spot him, Dean surreptitiously gives his armpit a smell test. He smells like the evergreen body wash Bobby keeps in the guest shower, to his relief. He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, taking a few steps towards Castiel's front porch where Cas is busy making sure Anna's jacket is on snuggly.

                "Dean!" Anna exclaims, seeming a bit too happy to see him, and Dean flushes red a little when Castiel's forehead crinkles with confusion and he looks back. Those big blue eyes land on Dean, and Castiel looks confused for a second before giving a little smile, sending relief spilling through Dean's gut. Anna slips past Cas and trots up to Dean.

                "So are you and my brother boyfriends now?" she asks bluntly, and Dean's eyes widen just a bit, glancing from her to Cas, not sure what to say.

                "Anna, leave him alone," Castiel snorts, coming up and taking her arm, pulling her away. "Sorry," he says to Dean, and Dean shakes his head a little, giving Cas a smile. "I'll be right back," Castiel says, and pulls Anna over to the next door neighbor's house. When the woman answers the door, she spots Dean standing in Castiel's front yard, and Dean can't hear what they're saying, but a second later, the woman waves Dean over with one hand.

                _Oh crap_. Is this a meet-the-parents kind of thing? Parents don't usually like him, but this woman isn't Castiel's mom, right? He hesitates awkwardly for a moment, and then grips his backpack straps tighter, wandering over to the front porch of the neighbor lady's house. Anna has already slipped inside, and when Dean glances at Castiel, Cas gives him a reassuring smile. Dean looks at the woman, and immediately feels as uneasy as he feels comforted by her presence. She's got a gaze that peers right through you, and while Dean can tell she's a warm character, he has no idea what this woman has heard about him. His reputation often precedes him.

                "Are you Dean Winchester?" she asks, but she already sounds like she knows the answer to that, so Dean just nods a little, pausing for a second before remembering his manners and holding a hand out.

                "It's nice to meet you," he says, and the woman gives him a gentle smile that brightens her wise face and instantly eases Dean's nerves. She takes his hand, and her grip is warm and soft.

                "Missouri," she replies. _Odd name_ , Dean thinks, but then again, so is _Castiel_. "Have you had any breakfast Dean?"

                Dean blinks at her, glancing once at Cas in confusion. "Um, yeah," he replies, "A bagel."

                She nods. "Good. Can't send you boys off to school without breakfast," she smiles before looking at Cas, "You had anything sugar?"

                Castiel smiles a little at her and nods. "We're okay," he says, glancing once at Dean, "We should go. We'll be late."

                Missouri hums in agreement and waves them off. "It was very nice to finally meet you Dean," she says, and Dean quirks a little smile at her, "Come around more often. You're always welcome."

                "Thank you," Dean says, clearing his throat a little, and then he and Cas turn away from Missouri's house, stepping down the stairs and walking towards the woods.

                When they reach the trees, Cas looks over at Dean. "Good morning," he says with a soft smile, and Dean looks back over at him, almost tripping over his own feet because of how blue Castiel's eyes look in the cold light of morning.

                "Hey," he replies, his body instantly melting into a state of relaxation. He doesn't even know why he was nervous in the first place.

                "Did you just decide you didn't want to walk to school alone today?" Cas asks, and Dean blushes a little again, looking down as they head through the trees down the worn dirt path.

                "I wanted to see you," he replies honestly, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Cas smile a little and run his fingers through his wet hair.

                "Did everything end up okay last night? Is Sam okay?" Castiel asks, and Dean has to think for a moment to understand what Cas is talking about. But then he remembers Sam showing up with a bloody nose at Hautley's Bend. He supposes from an outsider's perspective, that's an unusual occurrence, but in Dean and Sam's life, that's just another Monday night. He shrugs and nods.

                "Sammy's fine," he replies, "We spent the night at Bobby's." Dean pauses and licks his lips, not wanting to say too much about _why_ they needed to spend the night at the Singer's house. He glances over at Cas again. "Bobby is probably gonna ask you about us next time you work, just so you know. He was teasing me about it this morning."

                Castiel chuckles a little. "He already has," he replies, "He always finds a way to bring it up every time I work."

                Dean rolls his eyes. "Great," he snorts, "The old coot has nothing better to do with his time."

                Castiel shrugs. "I think it's nice. He seems to care a lot about you."

                Dean glances at Cas again, taking that in, smiling a little but saying nothing more. They walk in comfortable silence, the sounds of their shoes snapping frozen twigs the only noise in the woods. Even just being _near_ Castiel, Dean feels instantly better. His head is clearer, his body feels lighter, and his arm doesn't ache as much with his newest burns. He forgets about the disaster of a jerk-off session last night. Even if it was the first time he's successfully jerked off _without_ puking since Ghost Town, it still doesn't feel like a success over all. Dean still cried like a baby. It was pathetic. 

                But that doesn't seem to matter right now. Because Castiel is here, and when Cas is here, everything is okay, for a little while. Even if they're not talking, it's not awkward or uncomfortable. It's just _good_. Dean gets to thinking about his idea of heaven again as they trudge through the woods, their shoulders bumping every so often.

                When they start to hear the chatter of students at the high school just ahead, Castiel digs in his pocket and pulls out a pack of gum, handing Dean a piece before popping one into his own mouth. Dean thanks him, and bites into his own gum. Somehow, it's the best gum he's ever had, because it belongs to Cas.

                When they break free of the trees and begin to cross the parking lot towards the high school, Dean smells cigarette smoke twisting in the air, and realizes that The Docks are only several dozen meters away. He'd been so consumed by Castiel that he completely forgot about the fact that they'd be passing his friends this morning on the way to the school. Somehow, he just doesn't give a shit that his friends are seeing him walking with Castiel right now, no matter how much of a "loser" Cas is to them.

                He jumps a little when a golf-ball-sized rock sails in front of their faces, clattering to the pavement, missing them by about a foot. Dean and Cas both stumble to a halt, and Dean's eyes snap towards The Docks. Alastair and Zach are on their feet, and Dean just _knows_ by the look on Al's face that he threw the rock at them. Their eyes lock, and Dean freezes in place, like he always does when he sees Alastair.

                Zach hurls another rock into the air, and Dean can hear them laughing as the rock comes sailing towards them. It misses, and Dean recalls the morning that Al set Castiel's coat on fire. This is very similar, only on that day, Dean had been throwing rocks at Castiel too. He shivers a little, his stomach churning as a wicked smile spreads across Al's narrow face. Castiel's hand comes up and wraps around Dean's arm, pulling him along.

                "Come on," he says, and Dean blinks out of his momentary daze, swallowing hard and looking at Castiel as Cas drags him towards the school. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Zach flip them the bird, and Dean grinds his teeth, stepping around Cas so that he's between him and The Docks. If the rocks are going to hit anyone, they're going to hit Dean this time. He deserves it anyway.

                He takes one last glance towards his friends as they shout things he doesn't really care to hear, probably calling Dean a pussy or Castiel a loser. Whatever. Dean locks eyes with Crowley, who's sitting back on one of the boulders smoking a cigarette, not participating, but not stopping the others. When Crowley sees Dean looking, he gives Dean a small nod, and Dean swallows, nodding back just a bit. He misses Crowley, but what's he supposed to do about it now?

                The five-minute-warning bell rings just as Dean and Castiel step into the school, and instead of immediately heading to his first class, Dean walks with Cas down the hall to Castiel's locker. A few people glance their way with confused expressions. Normally if Dean is seen with Castiel, or someone _like_ Castiel, it's while Dean is beating them up, not just walking companionably with them. He ignores the stares and continues walking with Cas. What does he care anyway? His reputation is bad enough. It can't get any worse, can it? He shouldn't care what people think.

                He feels Cas looking at him, and Dean glances over. Castiel is studying his face with a bit of a concerned expression, and Dean is confused for a second before he realizes his jaw is locked and his heart is beating too fast and he's shaking a little. It's sort of what happens every time he sees Alastair, so he hadn't really noticed at first. He swallows thickly and tries to school his angry expression, giving Cas a stiff smile.

                "Are you okay?" Castiel asks, and Dean licks his lips, nodding, keeping his eyes on Castiel's face because that always calms him down.

                "I'm fine," he says, "It's just, those guys are assholes. I can't believe I used to hang out with them."

                Cas's head cocks to the side. "You're not friends with them anymore?"

                Dean swallows again, trying to slow the beating of his heart. "No, not really," he says as they stop at Castiel's locker and Cas starts fiddling with the lock, "But it's okay. I have you."

                Dean winces the second he says it, because that sounded pretty pathetically desperate. But Castiel just smiles, to Dean's relief. "Don't you miss your friends though?" he asks.

                Dean hesitates, and then just kind of shrugs. "They weren't really my friends," he replies, and Castiel looks at him for a moment. Dean pulls his eyes away from his face, studying the pictures taped to the inside of Cas's locker instead as Cas digs around for his books. Dean runs his fingers over some of the pictures, smiling a little to himself. He already saw all these pictures the day he put Cas's iPod back in his locker, but they make him smile anyway. They're like little windows into Castiel's life, and Dean wants nothing more than to know as much as he can about Cas. He just wants to know him.

                When Castiel clears his throat, Dean snaps out of his staring and looks over at him. Cas gives him a little smile, and closes his locker. "Thank you for walking with me," he says, "It was nice."

                The corner of Dean's mouth lifts in a half-smile. "Yeah it was," he says, and shifts from one foot to the other, hesitating briefly. Then, he just acts on his impulses. He leans forward and presses his lips gently to Castiel's, giving him a lingering kiss right there at his locker. Cas kisses him back briefly, and then they pull away. Dean feels that rush that spreads through his body every time he kisses Castiel. _That's_ what he's been craving all morning. He instantly feels better.

                Castiel smiles at him, blushing. "People are staring" he says quietly, his face still inches from Dean's. Dean can see a couple students looking as they walk by out of the corner of his eye. He just shrugs.

                "Who cares?" he says, pushing aside his momentary worry that Cas will be embarrassed to be seen with Dean in public, and gives Cas one last chaste kiss before pulling away, "See you in math?"

                Castiel licks his lips and nods, blushing furiously now, and Dean can't help but grin when he sees it. He rubs the back of his neck, and gives Cas one more smile before turning away to head to his first class, ignoring the stares he gets from lingering students as he walks. Right now, he really doesn't give a rat's ass what they think.

 

*       *       *

 

                The next two weeks go by both extremely fast, and pleasantly slow. Castiel is busy with school, and work, and taking care of Anna, but that's not what consumes him. _Dean_ consumes him. Dean is there every morning at his house now, waiting for Castiel, and they walk to school together every day, and it's the perfect way to start Cas's day. His heart twists happily every time he opens his front door and sees Dean standing there waiting on his front lawn for him.

                Things between them are subtly escalating. It's slow, but it's perfect, and one day Castiel wakes up and realizes he doesn't flinch when he's around Dean anymore. He used to, but now he doesn't. Dean has changed. Dean is different. Dean is perfect. And Cas has no idea why Dean likes him so much, because no one has ever liked Castiel like this. And _Castiel_ has never liked anyone like this. This is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

                They hang out together at Hautley's Bend several more times in the next two weeks, and each time, their conversations get longer. It's like they never run out of things to talk about. Castiel learns that Dean is madly in love with something called an _Impala_ , and he sits there for a good hour just getting lost in how _alive_ Dean's green eyes look as he talks about all the different pieces and parts that make up the car's engine and how Dean spends weeks every Spring restoring it and making sure it runs better than any new car out on the line.

                Castiel also learns that Dean loves pie, more than just about anything. He learns basically _everything_ there is to know about Dean's brother Sam, and he's again fascinated with how Dean's face lights up when he talks about his little brother. Dean never says anything about his mother or father, and Castiel doesn't pry. It may _feel_ like they've known each other for years, but they're still just _now_ becoming friends (maybe _more_ that friends). They still have a long way to go before divulging secrets. And secrets are something that both of them seem to have a fair amount of.

                Like why Dean shows up with black eyes and splinted noses every few days. He always seems fine with it, like it's no big deal, and Castiel always wants to ask, to make the bruises and the hurt disappear, but he doesn't. It's not something Dean really seems too keen on talking about either. So they stick to safe topics. They talk about movies, and Dean's car, and Dean learns that Castiel can cook really well and has _no_ idea what he wants to do with his life - something that he and Dean both have in common.

                Cas learns that Dean grew up in Rail Pass, has been here his whole life, and it's never changed. Dean tells him more about the legend of Nathan Hautley, how the town has seemed to be frozen in time ever since Elsa Hautley died in the woods. Talking about the Hautley's always makes Castiel have more of those strange dreams he's had since he moved to Rail Pass, but he doesn't think about them too much. He doesn't think about much of _anything_ that doesn't involve Dean, frankly.

                They partner up in math class almost every day, and Dean comes to Bobby's shop while Cas is working so they can do origami together. Castiel can't help but laugh at how overjoyed Dean gets when Cas teaches him how to make an origami Yoda like the ones on the mobile Dean bought.

                With every moment that passes while Cas is hanging out with Dean, Castiel finds himself growing more comfortable, and also more attached. He _craves_ those full lips against his, _craves_ the sparkle in Dean's ridiculously green eyes, _craves_ the husky sound of that voice. He even craves the faint smell of cigarette smoke lingering on Dean's clothing when they hang out, sitting close enough together that their warm bodies brush every time they shift. Every touch is like electricity, and honestly, Castiel spends the next couple weeks jerking off every night in a stupidly pathetic horny-teenage-boy way, coming too quickly, and embarrassing even _himself_. But he can't help it. Dean is like a living, breathing personification of sex. He's a god.

                People at school start to notice Cas and Dean hanging out more. They walk down the halls together, wait for each other outside their classrooms, even kiss publically. People notice. People talk. There are rumors flying around. It's a small town, so people don't have much else to do than to discuss the not-so-secret lives of others. And Dean is very famous with his reputation. It's giving Cas a bit of a reputation as well. People say that no one who's good news could be involved romantically with Dean Winchester. It earns Cas the label of "bad boy". He almost laughs. He's honestly the _furthest_ thing from a bad boy.

                That's obvious in the way that Dean has become strangely overprotective of Castiel, especially at school. Nearly every day, Dean is defending Cas from the other Cancers. Even if he's just putting himself between the Cancers and Castiel, or shoving one of the Cancers aside, he's protecting Cas from all the bad things that would potentially happen to him if he were alone. Castiel has to say that he doesn't miss being beaten up a few times a week. It's a welcome reprieve for his aching face. The bruises that once littered his face are replaced with Dean's soft lips pressing against his, and planting small kisses to his cheekbones and jaw and eyelids. Every one of them feels like an apology.

                Eventually, Gabe, Charlie, and Kevin find out, however. It was bound to happen. The rumors had to have caught up to them at some point. It's a Thursday afternoon towards the middle of January when Gabe suddenly appears out of nowhere and grabs Castiel's arm as he's walking alone in the middle of the hallway, dragging him off into one of the stairwells.

                "Ow! Gabe, what the hell?" Cas protests as Gabriel lets him go in the stairwell. Cas turns around, orienting himself, and finds Charlie and Kevin already standing there, both of them with their arms crossed and lips pursed like parents that have caught their child doing something bad. They have almost comically-forced expressions of anger on their faces.

                "Start from the beginning," Charlie demands, and Castiel stares at her, raising an eyebrow.

                "What?" he asks.

                Kevin rolls his eyes. " _Dean Winchester_? Seriously, Cas? What are you thinking?"

                Even the mere mention of Dean's name sends butterflies fluttering through Castiel's stomach, but he forces them not to show on his face. "You heard."

                "Damn straight we _heard_!" Gabe scolds, slapping Cas on the back of the head, making Castiel duck and wince, "What happened to letting that little crush go? This isn't healthy kiddo."

                Castiel holds up his hands calmingly. "Look," he reasons, "I know I haven't told you guys everything, and you have every right to be suspicious. But Dean is...he isn't like he used to be."

                "Oh, so he's _not_ using your face as a punching bag anymore then?" Kevin asks, and Castiel sighs.

                "No," he replies, "He's really a good person. You just have to give him a chance."

                Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, but we _are_ talking about the same Dean Winchester right now, aren't we? The Dean that put you in the fucking _hospital_?"

                Castiel shakes his head a little. "He's not the same," he assures them, "He's...changed. I don't know how else to say it. You just have to get to know him. He's one of the most genuine people I've ever met."

                Charlie narrows her eyes at Castiel, studying him, and then her face lights up all of the sudden. "Did you guys kiss?" she asks, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth. Castiel's lips tingle at the memory of the _many_ kisses he and Dean have shared now.

                He swallows hard and can't help but smile a little as he blushes and nods. "I really like him, okay?" he says, and Gabe's mouth falls open at the same time as Kevin's mean intervention-face drops away and he bursts out laughing.

                "You _kissed_ him?" Kevin exclaims, "When?"

                "I...well, lots of times," Castiel says, "But Christmas was the first time."

                Charlie's eyes bug out of her head, and she cheers a little, throwing her arms around Castiel's shoulders, giving him a tight hug. "Yay! Oh my gosh, that's so exciting! How was it?"

                Castiel chuckles a little, confused. "It was fine," he replies, "You're not mad?"

                Charlie giggles. "Nah, not really. I saw it coming," she replies, pulling away, holding onto Cas's shoulder still, "But he really _has_ changed, right? You're not lying?"

                Castiel raises an eyebrow. "You think I'd be kissing him if he was still bullying me?"

                Charlie shrugs, pursing her lips. "Good point," she says, "It's just weird though. This is like something out of a rom-com. The bully and the _bullied_ falling in love."

                "That's a pretty fucked up rom-com," Gabe says, at the same time as Castiel argues, "Dean and I are not in love."

                Kevin's eyebrows shoot up. "Really, dude? Because you've been AWOL since school started up again. And now we know it's because you've been with Dean."

                Castiel rolls his eyes. "We're not in _love_ ," he counters, "We just have been spending a lot of time together. He's a good guy. You should really sit down and have a conversation with him sometime."

                Gabriel folds his arms across his chest, regarding Castiel skeptically. "I don't have a good feeling about this," he says, "I mean, after everything Dean's done to you? It just all seems a little fucked up."

                Castiel bites his lip, shrugging. "I suppose from an outsider's perspective, it could seem that way, but...I don't know. Dean is just... _different_. I don't know how to describe it Gabe. I just really like him."

                Charlie squeaks and claps her hands. "This is so exciting!" she laughs, "Okay, can we come over tonight and hear all the details?"

                Castiel huffs a little laugh and nods. "Yes, that's alright, I suppose. I work until seven, but afterwards?"

                Charlie giggles and nods. "Yes!" she says, glancing at the others, "Is that cool with you guys?" Kevin and Gabriel both nod, although Gabe still doesn't look too happy about this. Castiel can't blame him. Gabe was the one who was there the most after Castiel took beatings last semester. He was the one there cleaning up Castiel's face, and distracting Castiel when he was feeling low. He was the one who found Castiel that day in the bathroom the first week of school covered in mud, and had taken him to the costume closet in the theatre to find him new clothes. Gabriel has every _right_ to have his doubts about Dean. But Castiel wants to prove him wrong. Castiel wants to show Gabe that Dean has changed, that he's an amazing person, and that Castiel is utterly addicted to him.

                "I've sort of noticed Dean's getting better actually," Kevin pipes up, "He hasn't been hanging out with the other Cancers all that much the past couple months, right?"

                Castiel shakes his head with a little smile. "He really _has_ changed. I don't know what it is but...he just has. He's a good guy."

                Gabriel rolls his eyes. "You better be right about this, kiddo," he says, "We're your friends. We're just looking out for you."

                The corner of Castiel's mouth lifts in a half smile, and he pats Gabe on the shoulder. "I know you are," he replies, "And I promise I'm being careful. This is a good thing, Gabriel."

                Charlie smiles a little. "You really like him, don't you?" she says, and Castiel glances at her, biting his lip sheepishly.

                "Yeah," he replies, "I do."

 

*       *       *

 

                The next day at lunch, Castiel is already sitting with Charlie, Dorothy, and Gabe at their table when he sees Dean enter the cafeteria out of the corner of his eye. Dean doesn't go over to buy any food, maybe because he doesn't have any money for it today, but instead just wanders across the cafeteria and sits at the first empty table he sees. Their eyes lock across the crowded room, and Castiel smiles a little at him. Dean smiles back, and Cas watches as he pulls out a notebook and starts doodling on a fresh page.

                Charlie notices Castiel's distraction, and glances back to see where his eyes are fixated. She smacks Cas on the arm when she notices Dean sitting there alone across the room. "You really _are_ hopeless," she laughs, and Cas blushes and smiles. Gabe and Kevin and Charlie had all come over last night, just as planned, and Castiel had told them everything he could think to tell them about he and Dean. He'd left out the more _intimate_ parts of the story, but he's tired of keeping secrets from his friends. If there truly is a relationship developing between Dean and him, he wants his friends to know. He wants their support. He's never had real friends like this before, but he thinks that maybe this is what he's supposed to do in a friendship. Be honest with them, get their help. Not handle things alone...in case something goes wrong between he and Dean.

                Castiel can't imagine anything happening between Dean and himself to ruin the unique bond they've formed, but anything is possible. The thought that maybe something someday could happen to break he and Dean apart _hurts_ , but he tries to ignore his doubts and fears, glancing back over at Dean, half-listening to Gabriel drone about some girl in his physics class. Dean keeps looking up at Castiel, and then back down at his paper, shading something in with his pencil. Cas can't help but just stare.

                He's in awe. He's in awe that someone as beautiful as Dean could possibly have any sort of feelings for Castiel. Dean has made it pretty damn clear that he likes Castiel, what with showing up at his house to walk him to school every morning, and kissing him or touching him every chance he gets. Castiel loves every second of it, but surely he's dreaming, right? Surely this is all just some crazy fantasy his brain has cooked up. Dean liking Castiel is like an eagle falling for a mouse. Dean is _beautiful_ , and Castiel is just...ordinary.

                Gabriel's fingers snap a couple times in Castiel's face, pulling him out of his daze where he's just been staring across the room at Dean. "You weren't listening to a thing I was saying, were you?" Gabe complains, and Castiel blinks at him.

                He bites his lip. "Sorry," he replies apologetically, "It's just..."

                "Dean, yeah, I got it," Gabe snorts, rolling his eyes, "I know you guys are all lovey-dovey now, but I still think this is a shitty idea."

                Castiel nods. "I know you do," he replies, giving Gabriel a bag of gummy worms from his lunch, "So if you can't trust Dean, just trust _me_ , okay? For now at least?"

                Gabriel rolls his eyes again, accepting the gummy worms and saying nothing else. Cas glances over at Dean once more, and Dean is looking at him again, chewing on the end of his pencil. Castiel gulps as he watches Dean's bottom lip protrude outwards where it's pressed against the body of the pencil, and Dean smiles around the eraser between his teeth when he sees the way Castiel is staring at his lips.

                _God_ , Castiel would give anything to just walk over there and take Dean's stupid face and kiss him until they both can't breathe. It's been a while since they've gotten a chance to kiss - to _really_ kiss. To kiss like they did at Bela Talbot's party, so thoroughly that both their lips were bruised for days after. Castiel has craved it ever since. Every time he kisses Dean, it's perfect, and he just wants _more_. It's simultaneously satiating and not enough every single time. He wants _more_.

                And suddenly, something occurs to him. He _could_ very well walk right over there across the cafeteria and kiss Dean right now. He's certain Dean wouldn't have a problem with it. And everyone already _knows_ that Dean and Cas have been hanging out. There are rumors spreading like wildfire. Everyone already _knows_ about them. It's not a secret anymore. So what harm would it do to just get up and walk right over there and kiss Dean? Not _make out_ with him right here in the middle of the entire senior class, obviously, but just kiss him, just once, like Cas has been wanting to do all day.

                He chews on a bite of string cheese as he stares at Dean, and Dean removes the pencil from his mouth, continuing to sketch in his notebook. Cas watches the delicate way Dean's big fingers handle the pencil, cradling it in a pinched hold as he draws, little smudges of graphite adorning the edge of Dean's palm. It's beautiful, watching Dean draw. It's beautiful watching Dean do _anything_ , frankly.

                Fuck it. Castiel is going for it.

                He drops the remainder of his string cheese onto his lunch tray and pushes himself up from his seat.

                "Whoa, where you going killer?" Gabe asks, and Cas glances down at his three friends.

                "I'll be right back," he says, and doesn't wait for a response from any of them before he starts walking across the cafeteria towards Dean's table. Dean is looking down at his notebook, not paying attention, and he doesn't notice that Castiel is approaching until Cas is only five or so feet away. When Dean glances up and sees him coming, his eyebrows shoot up.

                "Hey Cas," he greets, looking more surprised than anything, but Castiel doesn't say anything. He just kneels on the seat across from Dean, leaning over the table and sliding his hand behind Dean's head, crushing their lips together. It's a quick, three-second little kiss, but it earns them a few catcalls and some snotty girl muttering that they're perverts.

                It doesn't matter though, because the second Castiel kisses Dean, everything else goes silent. Dean is so surprised that he just freezes up for a second, before kissing back. It feels like it lasts for hours, when really it's just a few moments, and it succeeds in satisfying Castiel's sudden desperate longing for the feeling of Dean's lips against his. He pulls away and Dean's eyes are wide in surprise.

                "Wow," he breathes, grinning at Cas, "You're getting good at that."

                Castiel chuckles a little. "Thank you," he replies, ignoring the people he can see staring at them out of the corners of his eyes. He reluctantly removes his hand from the back of Dean's head, savoring the feeling of his soft hair between his fingers, and leans back just slightly so they're not so close together. He barely blinks, because he doesn't want to miss a moment of how _green_ Dean's eyes are in the bright cafeteria lights and the dull gray winter sun shining in through the windows.

                Dean clears his throat a little, licking his lips, and he glances down at his notebook. Castiel sighs and leans back a little more, looking down at Dean's notebook as well. There's a drawing of a faceless boy there, with wild tufts of dark hair sticking out of the head. Before Castiel can get a good look at it, Dean closes the notebook and tucks it away in his backpack. "So what brings you to my half of the cafeteria?" he asks Castiel, gesturing to the empty table he's sitting at.

                Castiel feels a stab of pity for Dean. Ever since Dean stopped hanging out with the Cancers, he's spent his time either alone or with Castiel at school. Cas knows very well the feeling of eating lunch by himself every day. He's done it for most of his life. He knows what it's like to be surrounded by people, yet be completely alone. He cocks his head to the side, staring at Dean. "Would you like to come sit with me?" he asks, and Dean's eyebrows shoot up in surprise again. He leans to the side, peering around Castiel to the table where Dorothy, Charlie, and Gabriel are still sitting across the room.

                "I'm not too sure your friends over there will take too kindly to that," Dean says, giving Cas a weak little smile. And Dean is right, at least about Gabe. Gabriel still dislikes Dean passionately, but Charlie and Dorothy are very open-minded and accepting people. Castiel doesn't imagine they'll have any problem with Dean joining them. Charlie has actually been urging Cas to introduce them to Dean. She's like their cheerleader.

                "They'll love you once they get to know you," Castiel says, and although Dean regards him with skepticism, Cas is being honest. He truly does believe that his friends will like Dean. He's fairly certain almost _everyone_ would like Dean if they just gave him a chance and ignored the reputation that precedes Dean Winchester.

                "I don't know about that," Dean says doubtfully, chewing on his spit-slick lip. Castiel wants to lean forward and kiss him again, but he restrains himself.

                "Trust me," Castiel says, and he nods his head towards the other table, gesturing for Dean to follow him, "Come on."

                Dean's throat ripples as he swallows, and he actually looks _nervous_. Castiel gives him a tiny reassuring smile, and Dean smiles back automatically, hesitating for several long moments before finally reaching down and grabbing his backpack, looping it over one shoulder and standing up. Castiel leads him across the cafeteria and Dean falls a step behind as they reach the table.

                Cas takes his seat, and Dean just stands there awkwardly for a moment, before Castiel pats the seat next to him. Dean swallows and sinks down next to Cas, glancing at him once, nervously, before looking at his friends across the table.

                "Guys, this is Dean," Cas says, "Dean, this is Charlie, and Dorothy, and Gabriel."

                Dean quirks a little smile, sinking lower into his seat. "Hi," he says. Castiel almost smiles. He never realized that Dean is actually shy. It's positively adorable how nervous he seems right now.

                Charlie grins widely. "Hi!" she greets enthusiastically, "Nice to officially meet you! I think we have a class together?"

                "Western Civ," Dean confirms, nodding and holding out his hand, seeming to relax just a little. Charlie shakes it happily, gushing a little as she looks between Dean and Cas. She seems more excited about the budding relationship than even Castiel is. It's kind of ridiculous, but also really nice.

                Dean holds out his hand to Dorothy next, and she smiles at him, shaking his hand in a much more reserved fashion, as she's accustomed to do. Everyone looks less enthusiastic about things than Charlie in Charlie's presence though. She's just very excitable. "Nice to meet you," Dorothy says, and Dean smiles a little at her, before holding his hand out to Gabriel. Gabe looks at Dean's hand, looks at Dean, looks at Castiel, and then snorts a little, shaking his head and pushing himself up from the table.

                Castiel's heart drops when Gabe stands and walks away without another word. He understands the reservations Gabriel has about Dean, but it would still be nice to know that Gabe is on his side. Dean closes his outstretched hand, pressing his lips together and pulling his arm back, glancing at Castiel. He pops his eyebrows, and Castiel gives him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry," he says, "Gabriel will come around."

                Charlie rolls her eyes. "Gabe just has a stick up his ass because he can't get a girlfriend. It's not your fault Dean."

                Dean chuckles a little, picking at his fingernails. "Nah, I get it," he says, "Everyone kind of knows me around here."

                Castiel bumps shoulders with him. "He'll come around," he repeats, and Dean looks over at him, smiling a little bit, much more shy than Castiel is used to seeing him. It's so freaking cute, Castiel has to restrain himself from kissing Dean again.

                "So Dean, you like any good movies?" Charlie asks, "Cas has movie nights at his house sometimes. You should come to one of them."

                Dean smiles at her. "Star Wars is at the top of my list," he says immediately, and Charlie's face lights up.

                "No way! Star Wars is my favorite! Do you like Harry Potter too?" Charlie asks, leaning forward and grinning.

                Castiel tunes out of the conversation a bit, watching Charlie and Dean ramble on about different nerdy movies. Dean is blushing a little at first, but then Castiel sees a side of Dean come out that he's only seen once before, when Dean was talking about the Impala. It's a sort of geeky side of Dean that Cas never expected Dean to have. Dean knows a _lot_ about a great deal of things. He is very smart. Not just academically, but also with pop culture, and machines, and music.

                Castiel sits back and watches the inevitable friendship bloom between Charlie and Dean as they discuss in detail all the different aspects of the Star Wars franchise they both like, debating whether Episodes I and II were even worth making. Dean agrees that they were worth a watch or two because of Ewan McGregor, but says he almost turned Episode II off once or twice because of Hayden Christensen's bad acting.

                Castiel can't help but smile as they go on and on. He and Dorothy exchange a couple humored glances at how enthusiastic the conversation is getting. Charlie even pulls out a notebook and starts writing the pros and cons of having Jar Jar Binks as a character at all, and listing all the worst possible ways to die in the Star Wars universe, including, but not limited to, the Sarlacc Pit.

                By the time the lunch period nears its end, Dean has fully relaxed next to Castiel, and there is genuine, un-forced laughter bubbling up from his throat. It makes Castiel feel light in his chest, and he can't stop smiling the entire time. He feels badly for the way Gabe had treated Dean, but Dean seems remarkably unaffected by it, like he's used to being treated this way, so Cas tries to let it go. He'll have to have a talk with Gabe later, in the hopes of changing his mind.

                At one point towards the end of the lunch period, Dorothy catches Charlie's attention, and Dean leans back, grinning, and looks over at Castiel. Cas smiles back at him. "Thank you," Dean says, quiet enough for only the two of them to hear.

                "For what?" Cas asks, cocking his head to the side.

                Dean shrugs. "For letting me sit with you. This was fun."

                Castiel smiles at him. "You should sit with us every day," he suggests, "It beats sitting over there alone."

                Dean arches one brow. "I don't think your pal Gabriel will be too happy about that."

                Castiel snorts. "He'll just have to suck it up," he replies, "He's stubborn, but he's just looking out for me."

                Dean nods a little, his eyes darting all over Cas's face. "He's a good friend."

                Castiel huffs a little breath. "Yes, he is," he agrees, "Sometimes _too_ good of one, I'd say."

                Dean chuckles, leaning in and giving Castiel one tiny little peck on the lips. Not enough to draw Charlie and Dorothy's attention, but just a quick, gentle kiss shared between them, like it's something they've done every day for their entire lives.

                Across the cafeteria, the door leading to the outside opens, and Castiel glances in that direction, spotting the four other Cancers as they enter the room from where they'd spent the lunch period at The Docks outside. Cas knows the _exact_ moment Dean spots them too, because he feels Dean bristling beside him like a dog whose fur just stood on end.

                Alastair is the last one to enter the door, and his sunken eyes scan the room, taking a few seconds before falling upon Dean. Castiel watches as Al's eyes flicker from Dean's face, to Castiel's, and back. Then a sharp, lazy smile spreads across that narrow face as he locks eyes with Dean once more. The smile gives  _Castiel_ the creeps, and it's not even directed towards him.

                Before he knows it, Dean's warm hand is wrapping around his under the table, intertwining their fingers like Dean is grounding himself here for some reason. Cas glances down at their hands woven together in his lap, before looking over at Dean in confusion. Dean's eyes are fixated across the room on Alastair as Al walks by, never breaking that stare, never stopping that disgusting smile. The look on Dean's face is haunting.

                Castiel knows that Dean and his friends had a falling out, but there seems to be something else going on here. Dean reacts strangely every time he sees Alastair. Something _happened_ between Dean and Al. Something bad. Castiel doesn't even pretend to know what it might be, but something _did_ happen. He sees it in the way Dean's eyes glaze over in terror and anger every time Al is near. He feels it in the way Dean is squeezing his hand under the table right now, like he needs an anchor. He sees it in that serpent-like smile Alastair wears on his face the entire way out of the cafeteria.

                Dean doesn't relax, even as the Cancers walk out of the room and into the hallway. He remains stiff and frozen next to Castiel, and Cas looks over at him, squeezing his hand a little, Charlie and Dorothy still distracted in conversation across from them.

                "Are you okay?" Cas asks, and Dean blinks a couple times, his stubbled throat rippling as he swallows, and he looks over at Castiel. Dean's green eyes are watery with the ghosts of secrets he's not yet told. Castiel won't pry, but hell if he's not curious. Most of all, he just doesn't like to see Dean this way. Seeing Dean is any sort of distress makes Castiel feel horrible and sick inside. He has no idea why that is, but he just does. He feels protective of Dean, in the same way that Dean seems to feel protective of him.

                "Yeah," Dean replies, clearing his throat, not letting go of Cas's hand under the table, "Yeah, I'm good."

                Castiel studies his face for a few more moments, but Dean looks away, down at the surface of the table, picking at little bits of food crusted onto the plastic as if it's the most exciting thing in the world.

                Castiel just watches him for the rest of the lunch period, wondering at the sudden change in Dean's demeanor. He rubs his thumb gently over Dean's knuckles in his lap, feeling the smooth bump of scars there from all the fights Dean's been in. Dean seems to relax into the touch a bit, and they sit there in silence waiting for the bell to ring. Cas savors the feel of Dean's hand in his, the heavy, warm weight of it, like it belongs there.

                After a few minutes, Castiel sees the corner of Dean's mouth quirk up into a slight, barely-there smile, and he strengthens his grip around Castiel's hand, holding tightly. It feels secret. It feels like Dean and Cas are sitting here in a world that consists entirely of this very moment, holding hands under the table, just the two of them and no one else. It feels good, and all Cas wants to do is freeze time so he can just be here with Dean.

                He wants Dean to be okay. He wants _himself_ to be okay. But for now, they can just hold hands. That's good enough for the time being. Cas will accept that.


	19. Heal Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning for a homophobic slur used in this chapter.

It was bound to happen. At one point or another, Castiel was bound to be caught off-guard. He was bound to be caught by the Cancers alone in the hallway at school, or walking through the woods, or _somewhere_. Dean can't always be there to protect him, and Castiel doesn't believe in protecting himself.

                It's the end of the week when Castiel is alone in the hallway of The Dungeon. He has a free period, so he's helping Pamela and the rest of the theatre department hang flyers advertising summer theatre classes. It's only January, but Pamela insists that they do everything they can to advertise and keep the theatre department alive.

                Castiel hears footsteps coming up behind him, but he just ignores them. Which is stupid really. It's been a few weeks since he's been picked on. He's gotten semi-accustomed to the welcome relief of not having to take a beating every couple of days, since Dean has been there constantly protecting him. But Dean isn't here right now - Castiel is alone. And he doesn't realize that the footsteps approaching him are the Cancers until a bony hand clamps down on his shoulder, making him flinch.

                He's spun around forcefully, causing him to drop the stack of flyers in his hands, but he doesn't have time to react before he's slammed back against the lockers, his head cracking against the metal.

                He squeezes his eyes closed tightly on impact as pain reverberates through his head, and when he blinks them open again, he comes face to face with Alastair. His dislike for Alastair has increased significantly since Cas has seen the way Dean reacts when Al is around. He still has no idea why Dean acts that way, but Dean is normally stoic and stubborn, so to see him acting the way he does when Alastair is near means whatever Alastair did is something _bad_. And it pisses Castiel off, because he feels stupidly possessive over Dean.

                "Hey there Castiel," Al greets, grinning lazily, one large, bony hand splayed out flat on Castiel's sternum, keeping him pinned to the lockers. Cas's eye dart behind Al and find Zach, Gordon, and Crowley standing there too. Zach and Gordon are close by, but Crowley is hanging back, leaning against the opposite wall, just watching nonchalantly.

                Cas doesn't afford Alastair a response, just swallows past the sudden dryness in his throat and blinks at them. _Shit_. He really didn't miss having his ass handed to him.

                Al seems unfazed by his silence. "Tell me Castiel," he says, lifting his hand and tracing little circles on Castiel's chest with one too-long fingernail, "Exactly how much dick did you have to suck to make Dean Winchester your little bitch?"

                Cas's eyes widen. _Wow_ , he wasn't expecting that. His forehead crinkles in confusion and he regards Al with a weird stare. "What?"

                Alastair's smile widens, but his eyes flash angrily. "Oh come on, you didn't honestly expect us not to notice the way Dean's been following you around like a lost puppy, did you?" he snorts, "Now tell me, what'd it take?"

                Castiel's eyes jump from Al's face, to Zach's, to Gordon's, and all the way back to Crowley's, before settling on Alastair's once more. "I didn't do anything," he replies, confused and unsure.

                Gordon snorts angrily behind Al. "Dean is a loyal friend," he says, as if he _knows_ Dean so well, "He wouldn't just up and disappear without some sort of reason. So what the fuck did you brainwash him with faggot?"

                Al glances briefly back at Gordon, and there's a weird look in Alastair's eyes like he knows something that nobody else does. Castiel flushes a little at Gordon's use of a slur, but it doesn't bother him as much as the look in Al's eyes. And all of the sudden, Cas is _angry_. He wants to hit Alastair - he _really_ wants to hit him. But he settles on just snapping instead.

                "Dean has a mind of his own," Cas growls, "Maybe instead of immediately assuming that I'm to blame, you should consider the fact that perhaps you're just a bunch of fucking _dicks_ and Dean decided he doesn't want to be around you anymore."

                The second the words leave his mouth, Cas freezes. _Holy crap_ , he's never spoken to anyone like that in his entire life. Dean must be rubbing off on him. Although frankly, anything involving Dean always brings out a side of Castiel that Cas never knew existed. A defensive, possessive side, like an alpha wolf. He blinks a couple times in surprise at himself, and then refocuses back on the four Cancers in front of him.

                Crowley stifles a laugh against the back wall, clearly very amused by the sass that just came out of Castiel. The other three look abruptly angry. Al digs his nails into Cas's chest, shoving him harder back against the lockers. "What the fuck did you just say?"

                Cas winces at the feeling of those long fingernails scraping into his skin, but his anger flares up again in another wave. "I said you're _dicks_ ," he replies, "Maybe if you weren't such shitty people, Dean would still want to be around you."

                Zach's eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling. "Wow, Novak finally grows a pair."

                Castiel barely hears him though, because his little burst of anger fades out again, and he's still pinned to the lockers. Alastair stares at him for a long moment before he leans in really close to Cas's face, and there's only so much room for Cas to shrink back. "You just think you're so fucking special, don't you?" Al growls, sunken eyes flashing angrily, voice low enough for only Cas to hear, "Dean wants you more, so you're just so much better now, aren't you?"

                Castiel swallows hard, trying not to gag at the rank odor of Al's breath. It smells like cigarettes mixed with compost. "Everyone is better than you Alastair," he says lowly, not blinking, staring into Al's beady eyes so close to his.

                Alastair looks at him for another long moment, and Castiel can practically _see_ the smoke coming out of his ears. Al has serious anger issues. It took barely a push to make him so mad, and while Castiel doesn't regret anything he just said, he feels a little bit of fear twinge in his chest, because he _knows_ what's coming.

                Alastair composes himself just a little, leaning back a bit and chuckling. He glances back at Zach and Gordon briefly, and then without another word, abruptly takes a swing. His knuckles connect with Castiel's jaw, sending his head snapping to the side. Cas barely has time to recover before Al lands another punch in the exact same spot. He tastes blood in his mouth.

                _Fantastic_. Castiel didn't miss this feeling, the bone-on-bone impact of a fist to his face. He kind of wishes Dean were here right now, because then this wouldn't be happening. And it's almost like Alastair is _jealous_? Jealous of the fact that Dean wants Castiel? What the hell is going on?

                Cas gags violently when Gordon manages to wiggle his way in and lands a punch to his gut. He thinks he hears Gordon call him a fag again, but he doesn't really care. Whatever. This is the twenty-first century. Homophobes aren't even relevant anymore, right? Why should Cas care what Gordon thinks?

                The Cancers don't get that many punches in before someone walks out of one of the classrooms next to them. It's just a girl with a hall pass, but the bullies back off of Cas when she comes out, letting him drop to the floor. He holds himself up on shaking hands, blinking hard a few times and shaking his head from the disorientation of getting punched. He glances up just in time for Alastair to spit down at him. The gob of saliva lands on his face, and Castiel flinches, grimacing as the hot liquid drips down his cheek.

                With that, Al laughs and he, Gordon, and Zach take off down the hall as the girl who appeared from the classroom turns and scrambles in the other direction, not wanting to get involved. Castiel glares after the three Cancers who took off, and tries to breathe even with the pain in his gut from Gordon's punch. From his right, he hears someone clear their throat, and looks up.

                Crowley is still standing there leaning against the wall with his hands tucked casually in his pockets. Castiel blinks at him, waiting for Crowley to walk over and start beating on him too. But instead, Crowley just smiles. It's not a nice smile, but it's not nauseating like Alastair's, so Castiel is unfazed by it.

                "Dean's been a bad influence on you," Crowley says, and Cas coughs a little, wincing at the pain in his gut, running his tongue over his teeth as he tastes coppery blood there.

                "What?"

                Crowley just shrugs away from the wall, taking a few steps towards where Cas is still on all fours on the ground. "You'd have never been this snappy had you not met Winchester," Crowley points out, pulling a folded up cloth out of his pocket, "A mouth like that will get you into trouble."

                Castiel doesn't reply, just stares as Crowley kneels down next to Cas and reaches for his face with the white cloth from his pocket. Cas flinches back, eyeing him carefully, and Crowley just rolls his eyes. "Hold still you twat," he bites out, taking Cas's chin roughly in one hand and swiping the cloth across his cheek with the other. It takes Cas a second to realize that Crowley is wiping Alastair's gob of spit off his face.

                His forehead creases in confusion as Crowley finishes cleaning his face and tosses the cloth aside carelessly on the ground. Then, he wraps one hand around Cas's arm and helps him up from the floor. Castiel stares at him strangely as Crowley brushes him off a bit, straightening out his shirt, and then giving Castiel a companionable pat on the shoulder.

                "What are you doing?" Cas asks, and Crowley looks at him as he takes a step back and tucks his hands back into the pockets of his pea coat that he never seems to take off.

                Crowley narrows his eyes at Castiel. "My god, you can never let anyone be nice to you, can you?" he scoffs, snorting and shaking his head. Then, without waiting for a reply from a dumbfounded Castiel, Crowley turns on a heel and starts heading towards the doors leading outside. "Say hello to Dean for me," he calls over his shoulder, and a moment later, he pushes his way out of the school.

                Castiel stares as the door sinks closed, swaying a little on his feet. He blinks a couple times and rubs the shoulder of his shirt against his cheek where Alastair spit on him. His skin is already dry, but it still feels dirty and disgusting because of the memory of the smell of Al's breath. _God_ , what did that guy eat?

                Castiel glances down and plucks the white cloth Crowley used to wipe his face up from the floor. It's a surprisingly fancy handkerchief with the initials _FRM_ stitched in gold thread on one corner. The gob of saliva Crowley wiped from Cas's face is tinged brown and black, and Castiel almost vomits when he sees it staining the nice white cloth. Perhaps Alastair has chewing tobacco or something in his mouth that made his spit that color. No matter, Castiel wrinkles his nose and tosses the cloth into the nearest trash can, rushing to the bathroom and quickly splashing his face, scrubbing at his cheek with a paper towel to get the remains of the tobacco spit off his skin.

                He briefly glances at his face in the mirror, eyeing the swelling lump on his jaw, and another just beneath his eye. There are already faint red bruises forming beneath his skin that he knows will turn black in an hour or two. Behind himself in his reflection, he spots the hole in the wall Dean had punched the first time they'd been alone together in this bathroom. He stares at the hole for a while, willing the ache in his gut to go away.

                His phone vibrates once in his pocket and he jumps a little before fishing it out. His heart flutters in his chest as he sees that it's a text from Dean asking **_where are you?_** He and Dean had exchanged numbers a couple days ago, and ever since, Dean has been sending him texts every night before he goes to sleep, just stupid jokes and lines from movies and things. They make Cas feel better, and they help him sleep.

                He squints at the message on his phone now in confusion for a moment though, before it suddenly occurs to him that he was meant to meet Dean in the library this hour to work on homework. Crap, Cas forgot! He was going to finish hanging those flyers and then go up there to see Dean, but the Cancers caught him off-guard and scrambled his brain.

                "Damn it," he curses under his breath, sending Dean a quick message telling him he's on his way, and then tucks his phone back in his pocket, pushing his way out of the bathroom. He stops briefly to scoop up the stack of flyers from the floor where he dropped them, deciding to hang the rest of them up later.

                He winces as he prods at his swelling jaw, hoping that Dean won't notice the bruise forming as he makes his way up the stairs out of The Dungeon and turns down the hall towards the library. It takes him no more than half a second after he enters the library to spot Dean sitting at a table across the room, near the couches in the back, scribbling something in one of his notebooks. He has a textbook open in front of him, and Cas actually smiles fondly. It's nice to see Dean working on homework like that - Dean had mentioned once that he doesn't really do much homework unless Sam is with him.

                When Castiel pulls out the chair across from Dean to sit down, Dean glances up and a huge smile spreads across his face. "Sit here," he whispers in the quiet of the library, pulling out the chair next to himself, and Castiel blushes a little, coming around and plopping down next to Dean, setting his backpack on the table.

                Dean immediately leans in, taking Castiel's face gently and planting one soft kiss on his lips in greeting. "Hey," he whispers to Cas, grinning at him, and Cas smiles back automatically.

                "Hello Dean," he whispers, and then winces a little when Dean's thumb brushes over the swelling bruise on his jaw. Dean's forehead crinkles in confusion and he glances at Cas's jaw, spotting the injury. He straightens up, taking Castiel's chin gently and turning his face to get a better look.

                "What the hell is this?" he asks, his voice just a little louder than it was before. The librarian shushes them from across the room.

                Castiel swallows, reaching up and taking Dean's hand, pulling it away from his face. "It's nothing, I'm fine," he says, giving Dean a small, reassuring smile.

                "The hell it is Cas," Dean argues, keeping his voice as low as he can, "Who did this to you?"

                Castiel bites his lip, just shaking his head a little. "Who do you think?" he whispers, chuckling a little, trying to lighten the mood. But anger flashes in Dean's eyes, and Castiel _almost_ flinches, almost cringes away, because it's the same angry look Dean used to get when he was with his friends and Cas was about to take another beating. But Dean isn't like that anymore, and Castiel leans back a little as Dean shoves himself to his feet.

                "I'll be right back," he growls, not even trying to be quiet and earning a glare from the librarian. Castiel protests weakly, but ends up just watching Dean stalk out of the library and around the corner down the hall. Cas stares at the door as it sinks closed, swallowing hard. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where Dean is going. Dean has more than proven that he's become overprotective of Castiel since they became _whatever_ it is that they are. He's going to hunt down his friends, because they hurt Cas. 

                Castiel sits there chewing on his lip for a moment, debating whether to just sit here and wait or to go after Dean. He decides the latter, since there's no way he's going to be able to just sit here and focus on his studying while Dean is out there all but _avenging_ him.

                Castiel gathers his and Dean's belongings, stuffing Dean's books back into his ratty backpack that has a broken zipper. He quirks a small smile as he looks at Dean's backpack. It's got character - just like Dean. It carries the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and spices, and there are little colorful patches here and there like the kind that bikers sew onto the sleeves of their jackets. It matches Dean perfectly. Castiel runs his hand down the soft, worn material of the backpack for just a second before snapping out of it and pushing himself to his feet.

                He carries both his and Dean's stuff out of the library, giving the librarian a small sheepish smile as she glares at him for making too much noise. He has no idea where Dean went, but he's got a pretty good idea where he'd begin his search for the Cancers. Hugging the backpacks close to his chest, enjoying that lingering _Dean_ smell on one of them, he turns and heads for the back door of the school.

                His suspicions are confirmed when he pushes through the door leading outside, huddling in on himself in the icy cold winter weather and looking over towards The Docks. Dean is already there, and from this distance, Cas can hear him shouting, although he can't hear what he's saying. Crowley, Gordon, and Zach are at The Docks, but Alastair is nowhere to be seen, which is strangely relieving to Castiel, for some reason.

                He stares as Dean shouts at them, and when Gordon stands up from where he's sitting on one of the boulders, Dean barely hesitates before taking a swing. Castiel gasps as Dean's fist connects with Gordon's face. The force of the punch snaps Gordon's head back, and Dean lands another hit seconds later that knocks Gordon to the ground. Zach jumps up from where he's sitting, and Castiel almost goes over there when Zach punches Dean. But he stops himself because, what the hell would Castiel do if he went over there? Just stand there being useless?

                He winces when Dean takes a good hit to his jaw, but then Cas smiles as Dean returns a punch to Zach's face that's three times as strong. Cas can hear Zach shout in pain from here, and Gordon scrambles up, ready to lunge at Dean again. Before any more punches can be thrown, though, Crowley stands up from where he was sitting on a cement slab, stubbing out his cigarette and stepping between the three boys, holding Gordon and Zach back while saying something calmly to Dean.

                Castiel doesn't stand there to watch any more. He's not sure whether or not Dean would like the idea that Castiel is watching him beat up his friends. Despite the fact that, when Castiel isn't on the receiving end of Dean's fists, it's actually unimaginably hot how well Dean fights. He feels a little fluttery inside as he turns away, stepping back into the school and just standing there waiting on the inside of the door for Dean to come back in.

                It doesn't take very long - no more than five minutes - before Dean appears, throwing open the door, his jaw locked angrily. Dean spots Castiel immediately once he steps inside, and his eyes fill with surprise. "Oh," he utters, halting in his tracks, glancing out the window once before looking back at Castiel.

                Cas doesn't say anything, just stares at Dean for a second, watching the anger bleed from his eyes, and then gives Dean a tiny smile, handing him his backpack. Dean slings his bag onto his shoulders, looking at Cas the whole time, and Castiel reaches down and takes Dean's hand, bringing it up and kissing his freshly bruised knuckles. "You didn't have to do that," he says to Dean, and Dean's throat ripples a little as he swallows.

                His free hand comes up and cups Cas's face, and Dean leans in, pressing their lips together briefly. "Yeah I did," he replies, brushing his thumb gently over the darkening bruise on Castiel's jaw. Cas swallows, feeling a rush of powerful affection for this green-eyed boy in front of him. Dean just _avenged_ him, for lack of a better term. He just beat up his old friends, because they hurt Castiel. No one has ever done something like that for Cas before.

                He leans in and kisses Dean again, more roughly than before, licking his way into Dean's mouth, swallowing the sound of surprise when Castiel's tongue slides past Dean's lips. Dean smiles into the kiss and slides his hand to the back of Castiel's neck. They stand there kissing for a few minutes, although it feels like an eternity, before being interrupted by a group of football players who make gagging noises when they walk by. Dean lifts his middle finger at them, but none of the jocks are stupid enough to do anything about it. They all know how dangerous Dean can be.

                Castiel smiles at Dean, trying to keep the metaphorical hearts out of his eyes, and all at once, he has an idea. "Would you like to come over for dinner tonight?" he asks Dean, cocking his head to the side.

                Dean looks at him in surprise, like he wasn't expecting that. Then he gives Cas a saucy grin. "Is this a date?" he asks.

                Castiel immediately blushes, glancing down once. "It's...I don't know. I mean...I'd just like to see you more. I like to spend time with you." He scolds himself mentally for stammering a bit over his words. He and Dean have hung out enough times at Hautley's Bend and at school to where this shouldn't be awkward, but Cas is such an awkward guy that he just automatically _makes_ things uncomfortable.

                But Dean just smiles, a little softer this time. "I'd love to," he says.

                Castiel looks back up at him. "Really?"

                Dean rolls his eyes. "Of course," he says, "But I can't really cook, just so you know."

                Cas smiles a bit. "It's alright. I've been told I'm a fairly decent cook, all things considered."

                Dean grins. "Awesome," he says, leaning in and planting one more quick kiss on Castiel's lips, "Then I can't wait."

                Cas can't help the blush that paints his cheeks, and he only blushes harder when he sees Dean's green eyes looking at it. But he forces himself not to pull away. He just holds onto Dean's hand, smiling a little, and they head down the hall back to the library together, Cas's stomach fluttering excitedly the whole way.

 

*       *       *

 

                "You got everything you need?" Dean asks, poking his head into Sam's room just as Sam is zipping up his backpack that evening. Dean had decided while walking home from school today that he should drop Sammy off at the Singer's before going over to Castiel's. The last thing he needs is to be worrying about something happening to Sammy should John come home in a less-than-sober state. Dean wants to focus all his attention on Cas tonight.

                Sam nods as he slings his backpack onto his shoulder and blows out the dozen or so candles he has lit on his desk before switching off his shade-less lamp on his nightstand. Dean glances up at the broken light fixture on the ceiling in the middle of all the glow-in-the-dark stars. He wonders if it's even worth getting fixed since it's been broken for so long. "So are you and Castiel a thing now?" Sam asks.

                Dean snorts, looking down at his brother. "We've been a thing for a while dude."

                "No, I mean, like a _thing_ thing. Like official," Sam asks, stepping out into the hallway of their small house and closing his bedroom door.

                Dean switches off the light in the hall as they make their way out the front door. "I don't know," he replies truthfully. He really likes Castiel - _really_ likes him. Maybe more than he should. But Dean doesn't want to scare Castiel away by trying to label things. And since when does Dean even need to put a label on things? He's happy with the way things are going with Cas. There's no sense in trying to do things by the book. Their relationship is wildly unconventional as it is.

                Sam eyes him as they head down the street towards Bobby's house, and looks like he wants to say something more about it, but doesn't. He can see that Dean is a little confused about the situation himself. So instead, Sam changes the subject. "I asked Jess to be my girlfriend."

                Dean's face lights up and he looks down at Sam. "Really? That's awesome! Now I actually have to meet her."

                Sam smiles a little, sheepishly. "She wants to come over for dinner sometime, but..." he trails off.

                Dean's lips press into a thin line. He already knows why Sam wouldn't want Jess to come to their house for dinner. Dinner in the Winchester household consists of a whole lot of shouting and just enough fucked up family drama to scare any girl away.

                Dean sighs and loops one arm around Sam's shoulders, ruffling his hair. "It's cool," he says, giving Sam a reassuring nudge, "We can make up a picnic or something and take her to Hautley's Bend."

                The corner of Sam's mouth quirks up in a little smile. "I was thinking of taking her out to Ghost Town this weekend sometime," he says, "Girls like all that scary stuff right?"

                Dean bristles next to Sam, his hand tightening marginally on Sam's bony little shoulder, and he successfully represses the violent shiver that wants to work its way through his body at just the mere mention of Ghost Town. "I don't want you going out there alone," Dean says stiffly, grinding his teeth.

                "Why not?" Sam whines, "You used to go out there all the time alone. Why can't I?"

                Dean glares down at his brother. "Because I said so, that's why," he replies, in a tone that makes it clear this isn't up for debate. Sam grumbles and hangs his head, shrugging out from under Dean's arm. Dean rolls his eyes, swallowing back any and all nauseating thoughts related to the subject of Ghost Town. He doesn't care if Sammy is going to be mad at him for not letting him take Jess out there. He doesn't want Sam anywhere _near_ those old train cars.

                They walk the rest of the way to the Singer's in silence. Ellen answers the door as always, and Sam ducks inside, glancing back at Dean briefly and giving him a small nod, almost like a little reassurance to his brother that he's not _that_ mad at him. That's one thing Sam doesn't like to do - leave angry. Dean salutes Sammy and gives Ellen a kiss on the cheek, thanking her for taking Sam for the night. She pats his cheek and tells him to be careful with serious eyes. She, like everyone else in Rail Pass, knows Dean's reputation too. She knows he can get up to no good. But he just gives her a reassuring smile and promises he won't get into any trouble.

                He hugs his leather jacket tighter around himself on his way to Castiel's. The sun is going down and the sky is lit up with a surprisingly vibrant dusk, deep blood red and eggplant purple that does nothing to warm up the air around him. The cold is biting and nips at his exposed ears and neck, and he sniffs a little as it freezes his nose, turning it red. But still, Dean feels warm. He always feels this way when he's going to hang out with Castiel, no matter how much time they spend together.

                It doesn't take him very long to walk to Cas's house, and his stomach rolls in anticipation as he walks across Castiel's frozen lawn to the front door. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a curtain over a window in Missouri's house next door part, and Anna pokes her head up. When she spots Dean, she grins and waves enthusiastically, and Dean snorts, waving back once. Anna looks like she was waiting for him. Castiel must have told her that Dean was coming over.

                Running a hand through his hair, Dean steps up to Cas's front door and knocks a couple times after searching for a bell and not finding one. A second later, he hears a loud crash from inside the house, and his forehead creases in concern. But before he can enter the house to investigate, the door swings open, and Castiel is standing there on the other side looking a little flustered. His hair is even _more_ messy than usual, and he has a smear of some sort of red sauce on his cheek.

                Dean can't help but smile a little, and he reaches out, swiping his finger across the streak on Cas's face and licking the red sauce off his fingertip. He hums. "If that's what we're having for dinner, I'm the luckiest guy in the world," Dean grins, enjoying the blush that colors Castiel's face as Cas wipes the back of his hand over where the sauce just was on his cheek. Dean leans forward and captures Cas's lips in his, kissing him deeply for a few moments, both of them melting into it.

                An icy tendril of evening winter breeze forces them apart and Castiel shivers. "Come in, it's freezing out there," he says, giving Dean a small smile as he takes his arm and pulls him into the house, closing the door behind him. The house itself isn't that much warmer, and Dean glances questioningly up at the vent above the doorway. Castiel follows his stare.

                "The heater's broken," he explains, watching Dean shrug out of his leather jacket, those blue eyes sweeping over Dean's body quick enough to where Dean almost doesn't catch it. He grins, straightening out his red flannel over his black Pink Floyd t-shirt that he wore especially for Cas, seeing as Castiel said he liked a song or two by them.

                "I heard something crash," he says, hanging his jacket on the old-fashioned coat rack standing in the front hall, "Is everything okay?" The house smells amazing, like a fancy restaurant, and Dean's mouth waters. He can't remember the last time he had an actual home-cooked meal that didn't come out of a box.

                Castiel rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, nodding his head towards the kitchen to indicate for Dean to follow him. "I dropped the tray of garlic bread," he explains, "I'll have to start over."

                "I'll help," Dean offers, wandering back there right behind Cas, watching the lines of Castiel's back flow and sway like water beneath his too-large Seattle Space Needle t-shirt. Cas glances back at him with a look of thanks as they step into the kitchen. Cas's house is small, but nice. Nicer than Dean's anyway. This is the first time Dean has actually been inside here. He's always just been standing on Castiel's front lawn waiting for him in the morning to walk to school...or that one time Dean put out a cigarette on his palm in the middle of the night in front of Cas's house. But he's not going to think about that right now. Not when he feels so good.

                "Do you like spaghetti?" Cas asks, crossing the room to the stove and plucking up a wooden spoon that's already stained red to stir a large pot of marinara sauce on one of the burners, "I made it from scratch."

                Dean smiles, wandering across the kitchen to Castiel's side, this room significantly warmer than the rest of the house with everything cooking. "Love it," he replies, peering over Cas's shoulder into the pot. The sauce is chunky and rich and looks perfect, and Dean is overwhelmed with sudden affection for Cas. He never knew Castiel was a good cook - the guy is full of surprises.

                Dean glances down and spots the tray Cas dropped on the floor, garlic bread scattered across the clean tiles. He stoops down and starts picking up the bread one by one, dropping them back on the tray.

                "You don't have to do that," Cas says, tapping the wooden spoon on the side of the pot on the stove and setting it aside.

                "Nah, it's cool," Dean replies, picking up the tray and dumping the ruined garlic bread into the trash, "Is there more?"

                Castiel plucks a half-used loaf of French bread from the counter next to the stove and hands it to Dean, pulling out a small metal bowl from the fridge with a yellow paste. "Do you want to do it?"

                Dean grins, taking the garlic bread supplies. "Sure," he says, laying out all the ingredients on the island counter and accepting a bread knife as Cas hands it to him. Castiel gets to work adding random spices to the sauce on the stove, and Dean glances back at him, staring at his back for a moment, wanting nothing more than to grab him and kiss him. He _could_ do that, but then they'd never get dinner made.

                "I only ever really cook the easy just-add-water stuff for Sammy," Dean says, more speaking to distract himself from how much he wants to kiss Cas, "I don't think I've made anything from scratch since Sam's birthday a few years ago."

                Castiel glances back at Dean. "What did you make him for his birthday?"

                Dean grins, spreading some garlic butter onto a slice of bread. "Some really crappy fondue," he replies, "It turned out chunky and awful, so we just went and got cheese fries at Biggerson's."

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, tossing a couple bay leaves into the spaghetti sauce and then wandering over to stand next to Dean. "What do you normally eat in your house?" he asks, and Dean glances at Castiel's face, suddenly so close to his. Cas smells like he always does, fresh and crisp like greenery. His eyes shine like dew. Fresh bruises from today's fight speckle his pale skin. It takes _everything_ Dean has not to just kiss him.

                "Boxed stuff mostly," he replies, forcing himself to look back down at the garlic bread, "Mac 'n cheese, Ramen, Rice-A-Roni, crap like that. And those powdered mashed potato packs are good." He grins at Cas as Castiel studies him.

                "You're going to have a heart attack by age twenty-five."

                Dean laughs. "Hey, so long as Sammy doesn't go hungry, that's all that matters right now," he says, plunking a few pieces of garlic bread on the tray to go in the oven, "He's only twelve. He can't even make toast without burning it."

                Cas rearranges the garlic bread on the tray into a more uniform row. "What about your father?" he asks.

                Dean glances over at him. "What about him?"

                "Do you cook for him too?"

                Dean huffs a little laugh, but looks down, biting his lip with a shrug. "Not really," he replies, swallowing and buttering another slice of bread, "He survives on a diet of beer nuts and Jack, mostly. I don't think he'd like my cooking."

                As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean flushes a little. He doesn't really want to delve too deep into his family drama - he doesn't want to scare Cas away. But being around Castiel makes him feel so relaxed and comfortable and _safe_ , it's easy to let things like that slip out. Dean blushes and glances over at Cas briefly, giving him a tiny smile before picking up the tray of garlic bread and turning away to slip it into the already-heated oven, closing the door.

                "Did you learn to cook from your parents?" Dean asks, changing the subject as he leans over the pot of spaghetti sauce and dipping his finger into the hot liquid, licking it off his skin before it burns.

                Cas steps over and stirs the sauce again, shrugging too. "My parents aren't really around all that much. I taught myself how to cook from those tutorials on the Food Network."

                Dean laughs. "We never had reliable enough cable to get the Food Network. I should check out Youtube or something for free tutorials."

                Castiel smiles, holding up a small spoonful of the sauce to Dean's lips. "I'll teach you," he says, and Dean grins at Cas once before closing his lips around the wooden spoon, sucking the sauce off of it perhaps a little too seductively, staring at Castiel the whole time as Cas watches his lips.

                Then to Dean's surprise, Cas drops the spoon on the counter and leans in, kissing him deeply. They stand there kissing over the stove for several minutes, Castiel dipping in and tasting the marinara on Dean's tongue, but Dean restrains himself, not taking it too far. He knows if this were anyone else, he would be tearing their clothes off right now, but this is _Cas_ , and Cas is special. So he just settles on sliding his hand to the back of Cas's head and carding his fingers through that soft, thick hair, enjoying the kiss and not pushing things too far.

                Castiel's hand comes up and presses against his chest, right over his heart, just like he did at Hautley's Bend on Christmas during their first kiss. Dean thinks maybe Cas is trying to feel his heartbeat, but his slender fingers brush over the necklace Dean never takes off, and he pulls back from the kiss briefly, looking down at it.

                "What's this?" Cas asks, and Dean glances down at where Castiel is twirling the little golden pendant in his fingers.

                "Sammy gave it to me for Christmas a long time ago," he supplies, enjoying the delicate way Castiel's fingers cradle the amulet so reverently, as if Cas knows how special the necklace is to Dean.

                "You never take it off," Castiel says. It's not a question so much as an observation.

                Dean smiles a little, blushing just slightly. "Sam found it under a dresser at Bobby's house and Bobby said he could have it, so Sammy strung it on a cord and gave it to me. We didn't really have money to exchange too many gifts, so I treasure it. Reminds me of Sam."

                Cas hums a little in understanding, twirling the little golden head this way and that, taking it in, before looking back up at Dean. Dean is surprised by the look in Cas's eyes. He's looking at Dean with the same amount of abrupt adoration and admiration as Dean has been feeling for Cas all night. It's just strange to see those feelings returned, but Dean has to keep reminding himself that Castiel likes him too. This isn't a one-sided crush. Cas _wants_ him, for some reason. Dean is going to take what he can get.

                Castiel leans in and gives him one last lingering kiss before pulling away. "We should eat. The noodles will get cold."

                Dean stares at Cas, taking in as much of him as he can before Castiel turns away and grabs a couple plates from the cabinet. _Imagine that_ , Dean thinks, _there are actually unbroken plates in this house_. They dish out their own food, Dean's plate heaping with twice the amount of pasta Cas has. Castiel makes Dean take the garlic bread out of the oven this time, since he's afraid he'll drop it again. Then they carry their food to the living room, plopping down on the couch and balancing their plates on their laps, watching some really crappy horror movie that ends up making Dean laugh more than jump.

                They chat throughout the movie, talking about all sorts of random topics, just like they do every time they hang out. Dean has noticed that no matter how many times he hangs out with Cas, everything they talk about suddenly seems like the most interesting conversation Dean has ever had. Even if they're just talking about an upcoming math test, or how Cas really doesn't like feet, or how Dean once broke his ribs by falling _into_ a tree, not out of one, it's always the most intriguing conversation, because everything Castiel says in that gravelly deep voice of his is somehow the most stupefying thing Dean has ever heard.

                He wants to know everything about this beautifully exotic boy next to him. He wants to melt into Castiel's life. He wants to know his secrets, his dreams, his experiences. He wants to kiss those pale, chapped lips until both of them suffocate on each other's affection. He wants to do everything with this boy. 

                And Dean feels strange inside. As they sit here, watching this shitty horror movie, finishing their downright _extraordinary_ spaghetti, settling into the dusty couch in Castiel's cold living room, Dean has a strange feeling simmering in his chest. It takes him almost an hour to realize that this feeling is happiness. He hasn't felt happiness in so long, he's completely forgotten how it feels. Sure, he still has problems, but right now all that fades into the background, and he forgets about how the healing burns on his arm are aching, or how John is probably breaking the front door right now, or how Ghost Town is only two miles away just _existing_ there. He forgets all of that, because Cas is right next to him, sitting so close that their arms are brushing, and Dean feels _happy_. Stupidly so.

                Dean has found a _real_ friend in Cas. He's never had real friends before, with the exception of Crowley, and even that is up for debate. His budding friendship with Castiel is the kind of friendship Dean only ever expected to see in movies or read about in books. But here Castiel is, a real living breathing human being, and he's Dean's friend - maybe even _more_ than Dean's friend, although Dean won't get ahead of himself here. This extraordinary blue-eyed boy is here with him, _wants_ to be here with him, to be his friend, to kiss him, and laugh with him, and Dean feels like the luckiest person in the entire world to have the privilege of being here with Cas.

                When the credits on the crappy movie roll, Cas plucks Dean's empty plate out of his hands, carrying it back to the kitchen for him and instructing Dean to pick out another movie if he wants. Dean crawls across the floor to the TV stand and sifts through the DVD's. Most of them are things he hasn't seen before, but he's never been opposed to trying new things, so he selects one called _Turner & Hooch_ with a picture of Tom Hanks and a drooling dog on the front and pops it in as Cas returns from the kitchen carrying a carton of ice cream and two forks.

                Dean gives him a strange look as they plop back down on the couch together and Cas hands him one of the forks. "You eat ice cream with a fork?"

                Cas pops the lid off the Rocky Road. "Always," he replies, "Anna got me in the habit of doing it this way. It's actually easier."

                Dean snorts as Cas digs his fork into the ice cream, scooping out a small bite and leaving four prong-shaped lines in the surface of the frozen treat. "Have you always been this strange?" he asks, smiling at Cas and scooping out his own large bite of Rocky Road.

                Cas cocks his head to the side, licking his fork clean. "What do you mean?" he asks.

                Dean just stares at him for a second, smiling fondly, and then he leans in, giving Cas a quick peck on the lips. "Never mind," he says lowly, lingering there inches from Castiel's face for just a few moments before leaning back and taking a bite of ice cream. Even though Dean has had Rocky Road ice cream countless times before, somehow it just tastes better because it's Castiel's. He almost moans around the chocolaty bite, but restrains himself as he sees Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye.

                Dean glances at him once more and grins, forking up another scoop of ice cream. Castiel has one of those smiles on his face that Dean loves, simply for the fact that it doesn't even reach his lips. Cas is smiling only with his eyes, but the smile is so powerful that it lights up those blue orbs like beacons. Dean stares at it for a few seconds before licking his lips and looking back at the movie, watching Tom Hanks trim his nose hairs on the screen and chuckling a little.

                It's no more than a few minutes later when Castiel moves, shifting next to Dean, and Dean almost flinches when Cas suddenly lays his head on Dean's shoulder, tucked up against his side. Dean freezes in place, not sure what to do. He's cuddled with people before, sure, but not anyone he's really cared too much about particularly. At least not as much as he cares about Castiel. What does this mean? What is Dean supposed to do?

                Cas just lays there, taking another bite of ice cream and watching the movie, and Dean turns his head a little, his heart fluttering in his chest. Cas's dark hair tickles his face, and it smells amazing, like almonds and honey, as opposed to Dean's, which probably smells like Sam's lemon-lime body wash since they ran out of shampoo a couple days ago. He's so afraid of making a wrong move, of doing something to scare Cas away, but so far, _Cas_ has been the one making all the first moves tonight, kissing him in the kitchen and now laying his head on Dean's shoulder.

                So Dean decides to let go of his fears for now. Just for tonight. He gives into his instincts for just a moment, leaning down and pressing his lips to Cas's forehead before scooting down a little on the couch and resting his cheek against the top of Castiel's head. He can feel Cas's jaw bulge a little against his shoulder as he smiles, and they both take another bite of ice cream, watching the movie.

                Dean has no idea what happens in the movie. He's too distracted by the smell of Castiel's hair, and the way Cas's whole body vibrates a little when he laughs at the funny parts. At one point, Cas has to get up to put the melting ice cream back in the freezer, but when he returns, he just lays his head on Dean's shoulder again, settling in even closer than before, and this time Dean lifts his arm, looping it around Cas and holding onto him, trailing his fingertips over Castiel's soft skin on his arm, just enjoying the feeling of Castiel being there.

                Dean doesn't even realize he's closed his eyes and dozed off until Castiel suddenly moves and Dean blinks them open again. The credits to the movie are rolling, and he rubs at one eye, glancing over at Cas as Castiel stands up and goes to turn off the TV. When Cas turns back around, he gives Dean a small smile. "Tired?"

                Dean huffs a little laugh that turns into a yawn, and he nods. "But I don't wanna leave," he says, actually feeling a stab of sadness in his gut at just the mere thought of leaving now. He's been here for several hours, but it never really seems like enough time when it comes to hanging out with Castiel.

                Cas just chews on his lip, looking at him for a moment, and then he comes forward, taking Dean's hand and pulling him up from the couch. He starts to drag him towards the stairs leading to the second floor, and that wakes Dean right up. "What are you doing?" he asks.

                Cas glances back at him as he switches off the downstairs light. "Stay here tonight," he says, "We don't have school in the morning so we can sleep in. I have a big bed."

                Dean feels a little thrill wash through him at the thought of getting to hold Cas while they sleep. He never thought he'd be spending the night here, but he just shrugs, smiling a little. "Okay," he agrees, and Cas quirks his lips at that, pulling Dean up the stairs and down the hall.

                Cas flips on the light in his room as they step inside, and Dean glances around. The walls are bare, although the room isn't terribly small. There's one window right above the queen-sized bed, a nightstand next to it, and a dresser pushed up against the wall next to the door. It's very clean, at least compared to Dean's room, and there really isn't much in here that expresses any of Castiel's personal interests, apart from the origami crane mobile hanging from the ceiling above the bed, and the collection of different intricate origami figurines lined up on Cas's desk near the closet.

                Dean wanders over there as Castiel kicks off his shoes. He picks up a little origami pineapple, handling it delicately, smiling a little bit before setting it down and picking up another origami creation in the shape of a school bus, complete with little drawings of windows and kids inside. He hears rustling behind himself and glances back to see Cas pulling off his jeans. Dean swallows, unable to stop himself from eyeing Cas's legs. Cas is actually surprisingly well-muscled. The only other time Dean saw him without clothes on was when Cas was in his bathtub, but Dean had been too freaked out then to appreciate the view so much.

                Cas's legs are well-defined, like Dean's, and pale. Castiel is wearing white and blue pinstripe boxers, and Dean almost has a heart attack when Cas pulls off his Seattle shirt, leaving him there in nothing but those boxers, facing away from Dean, his defined back-muscles rippling and rolling as he reaches into his closet and pulls out a soft-looking plain white t-shirt, pulling it on over his head.

                Dean swallows hard and looks away, blushing a bit, suddenly half-hard in his pants when he shouldn't be. He sets the origami school bus back down on the desk, kicking off his own work boots and pulling off his red flannel, leaving himself in just his long-sleeved Pink Floyd shirt. He almost takes his jeans off, since sleeping in jeans is really fucking uncomfortable, but he decides again it, because he isn't sure if that would make Cas uneasy.

                As he pads over to the bed though, Castiel eyes him up and down. "You don't have to keep your pants on," he says, "That can't be very comfortable."

                Dean blushes furiously, and glances down at his loose jeans. "You don't mind?"

                Castiel snorts, gesturing to himself, standing there in a t-shirt and boxers. "Does it look like I mind?"

                Dean allows his eyes to wander over Cas from head to toe before he smiles a little and shrugs. Why is he suddenly so nervous? He reaches for his belt, quickly flicking it open and undoing his pants, letting them pool at his feet as Cas flips off the light in the room. Dean briefly considers whether Cas will be able to see his scars traveling down the side of his thigh, and prods at his skin with his fingers. His boxers are long and baggy enough that they cover the scars for now. The room is dark with the light off, but the moon is shining in through the window, giving the bed a dim silver glow.

                Dean crawls onto the mattress, pulling the blankets down, and sort of hovers there awkwardly for a moment, unsure which side Castiel prefers. He looks up when Cas steps up next to the bed and climbs on, but to Dean's utter shock, Cas doesn't just pick a side to settle on. Instead, he climbs on top of Dean, straddling his lap and leaning down, capturing his lips very suddenly.

                Dean pulls in a sharp breath of surprise, his head forced back into the frankly _unnecessary_ amount of pillows Castiel has piled at the head of the bed. _Wow_ , he was _not_ expecting Castiel to just up and kiss him like that.  

                Even so, he can't help but immediately kiss Cas back, because every time Cas's lips touch his, it's even more intoxicating and addicting than any drug Dean has ever tried. His hands come up and settle on Cas's sides, Dean's back propped up by the mountain of pillows as Castiel sits in his lap. Cas's hands cradle either side of Dean's face, his thumb brushing Dean's sharp jaw as he kisses him.

                Dean's heart very abruptly starts hammering, because this is different than how they usually kiss. The last time they kissed this deeply, they were at the party in Johnson, and both of them were drunk. Now, they're both sober, and Castiel made the conscious decision to climb on top of Dean and kiss him. This still baffles Dean, that Castiel even wants anything to do with him after everything Dean has done. But he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He's just going to enjoy it.

                He moves one hand to the back of Castiel's head, deepening the kiss, and in the quiet of the room, where the only sounds are of the blankets rustling and their lips moving together, Dean is surprised to hear a faint groan escape Castiel's throat, from deep within his chest. Dean doesn't even have to ask. Castiel just parts his lips and allows Dean to slide his tongue inside his mouth as if they've been doing this their entire lives.

                He has no idea how long they kiss like this. It feels like hours, _days_. He always seems to lose track of time when he kisses Castiel. His mind constantly wanders back to his idea of heaven. This is definitely up there, kissing Cas like this. He could do this for years and he would never tire of it.

                At one point, Cas plunges his tongue inside Dean's mouth, and at the same time rolls his hips downwards slowly, almost like he didn't mean to. Dean gasps sharply as he feels Castiel's erection through the thin material of his boxers, and Dean can't help but surge his own hips upwards, meeting Castiel's in a slow drag that's torturous and wonderful all at once. Both of them gasp and groan in unison as their hardened dicks rub against each other.

                Dean pulls away briefly, breaking off the kiss and forcing himself not to thrust upwards against Castiel, even as he feels Cas unconsciously grinding a little against him. Dean is breathing hard, letting his head fall back into the pillows, a fine trembling in his wrists that he tries to ignore. He huffs a little breathless laugh. "Are you sure you're a virgin?" he asks Cas, looking up at him in the dim moonlight. In this darkness, he can't make out Castiel's features, but he can see the hard cut of his jaw, and that wild mess of hair that's even more crazy now that Dean's hands have been running through it.

                Castiel chuckles a little, sounding just as breathless as Dean. "I'm just doing what I see on TV," he admits sheepishly, "Am I doing okay?"

                Dean laughs. "Yeah," he says, nodding despite the fact that he's not sure Castiel can see, "Yeah Cas, you're doing fine."

                Dean can't see it, but he knows Castiel is smiling, and then Cas leans down again, pressing their lips together. Dean _almost_ asks whether Castiel really wants this, whether he understands what he's doing. He _almost_ asks whether Castiel is sure. But he forces himself not to. Castiel kissed him first. Castiel is the one on top of him, rolling his hips torturously against Dean's. Castiel is the one initiating this. So maybe he really does want this. God-knows why, but Castiel wants Dean, and who is Dean to argue?

                Dean slides his tongue into Castiel's mouth again, tasting Rocky Road ice cream there, as well as that sweet, exotic flavor that belongs distinctly to Cas. When Castiel slides his hands around Dean, making Dean arch his back off the bed, Dean's grip tightens in Castiel's hair, and he thrusts upwards against Cas. Both their hardened shafts meet and slide together through their boxers, and Dean groans loudly, louder than he meant to. He would feel embarrassed, if it weren't for the fact that he's so turned on right now.

                His other hand not twisted in Castiel's hair slides down and he presses his palm flat against the small of Cas's back, pulling Cas down against him as he grinds upwards again. Castiel is breathing hard, his fingers digging gently but firmly into Dean's back, and Dean shivers as their hips meet again and again as they set up a slow and steady rhythm. Dean realizes he has his bowed legs wrapped around Castiel's hips, and his heels are digging into the back of Cas's thighs, pulling him into each thrust, bucking up against him, both of them breathing hard and moaning shamelessly, despite the fact that they haven't even taken off their clothes. They're just kissing and grinding, like middle school kids, and it shouldn't be that spectacular, but it _is._

                Dean has done this before. He's topped and bottomed, fucked and been fucked, by both guys and girls. But somehow, here with Castiel, it's just...different. Better. This is all somehow new to him, because Castiel is _different_. Castiel means something. He isn't some nameless dude at a party, or some girl at school looking for a hookup in the janitor's closet. Castiel _means_ something to Dean, and that makes this scary, and new, and _better_ than any make out session he's ever had. This feels like magic. It feels like a dream.

                All at once, Dean wraps his arms around Castiel tightly, flipping them over, startling a surprised sound out of Cas as Dean settles on top of him. But they barely break the kiss, and Cas willingly spreads his legs so that Dean can settle in between them, and Dean grinds downwards. They press together at just the right angle, and Dean can feel Castiel's hard length against his own, warm and throbbing and perfect. It's all so perfect. He thrusts against Castiel harder than before, and Cas's breath hitches, melting into a groan as his fingers clutch Dean's shoulders.

                Their kisses are sloppy and messy, but it doesn't matter, because the heat building between them is overwhelming. Despite the fact that they haven't even done anything but dry hump, Dean feels his climax slowly but surely building low in his gut. He doesn't want it to end yet, but this just feels so good.

                He gets lost in the movements for a countless number of minutes, and only snaps out of the erotic daze when Castiel's hands suddenly slide down and start pulling Dean's shirt up to take it off. Dean abruptly breaks away from the kiss, freezing up and staring down at Cas. His mind immediately jumps to his scars. He doesn't want Cas to see them, but is it too dark in here for him to see?

                "Are you alright?" Castiel asks, out of breath, his hands leaving the hem of Dean's shirt. Dean breathes hard, looking down at Castiel. It's still too dark to make out any of Cas's features, and Dean swallows hard. Maybe it's too dark for Cas to see him either. He wants to believe that, because he _really_ doesn't want Cas to see his scars. They're ugly, and personal, and something that Dean wishes no one would ever see.

                Castiel's hand comes up and settles on the side of his face. "Dean?" he asks, his voice hinting at a little bit of concern. Dean swallows hard, blinking a few times. He doesn't want this to stop. He doesn't want to stop kissing Cas. He _wants_ Cas, _all_ of him. So he shoves aside those fears and doubts in his head, and he forces himself to breathe.

                "I'm fine," he says, giving Cas a smile even though Castiel can't see it. Dean sits up briefly, and forces himself not to hesitate before grabbing his long-sleeved shirt by the back of the neck and pulling it over his head. Cas doesn't pause too long, reaching for his own shirt and shimmying awkwardly out of it where he's still laying down. Dean helps him pull his t-shirt over his head, and he tosses both the shirts aside on the floor before hesitantly leaning back down and blanketing himself over Cas.

                It feels _amazing_ to be laying here skin-to-skin with Cas, in nothing but their boxers. Castiel's soft, cold hands smooth down Dean's back, starting at his muscular shoulders and tracing the curve of his spine. Dean feels goose bumps raise on his skin as Castiel's fingers tickle over his freckles, and Dean settles his hands around Castiel too, feeling that soft, pale skin. He keeps his burned arm a couple inches away from Castiel's skin. The last thing Dean needs is for Cas to feel all those Band-Aids. He doesn't want to have to explain. Dean presses their lips together again, softer this time as they touch each other experimentally, getting used to the feeling of their bare skin again their hands.

                Dean shivers as Castiel slides his palms up and down Dean's back, and kisses Castiel deeply as he begins to roll his hips again. Dean stiffens briefly as he feels Cas's hand slide over the scars on his side, and Cas's palm hesitates there for a moment. But then it continues down, crawling over Dean's back again, and Dean relaxes. If Castiel felt the difference in the texture of Dean's scars versus his skin, he's not going to say anything. At least not tonight.

                They fall into a steady rhythm again, the kisses growing more and more deep, and Castiel groans shamelessly, clinging desperately to Dean as they rut against each other. Dean has the sudden, irresistible urge to wrap his mouth around Cas's dick again, just like at the party. To feel the heavy weight of his cock on his tongue, to drag those delicious moans from Castiel. He breaks off the kiss again and moves his lips down, nipping, licking, and biting gently at Castiel's neck, laving his tongue in the hollow of Cas's collarbone.

                Castiel shivers as Dean's teeth scrape against the protruding bone, like a wing, and Dean smiles against his warm skin. Even Castiel's smell is intoxicating. Dean just wants to bury himself in this boy. He pulls back briefly, just enough to look down at Castiel, even though they can't really see more than silhouettes.

                "I wanna make you feel good Cas," he says, whispering now, his hips unconsciously grinding a little against Castiel, "Can I?"

                Dean can't see it, but he hears Castiel gulp as he swallows, and then the shape of Cas's head nods breathlessly. Dean smiles, his stomach fluttering excitedly, his heart hammering in his chest, and he dips back down, pressing a deep kiss to Castiel's lips once more before beginning to trail his mouth down. He kisses down Castiel's neck, across his winged collarbones, down his chest, stopping at one nipple and flicking his tongue over it. Castiel jerks and groan as he does, and Dean huffs a little laugh, sucking Cas's nipple into his mouth briefly before moving over to the other and doing the same thing.

                Castiel pants, his chest heaving as he struggles to get in enough air, and Dean slowly moves his way down, kissing Castiel's lightly-protruding ribs, down his muscled stomach and laving at his navel. Dean has never before enjoyed this so much, mapping out someone else's body. Usually when he does this, it's just a race to the finish. But he's savoring every little gasp and groan Cas makes, savoring the taste of every single inch of Castiel's torso.

                And when Dean stops at the edge of Castiel's boxers, his hard cock tenting the thin material, he mouths over the line of Castiel's erection through the fabric. Castiel lets out a small cry, bucking up against Dean's mouth, obviously half-crazy from all the teasing, and Dean holds him down with one hand on either hip, his thumbs brushing along Castiel's sharp hipbones.

                Dean can tell that Castiel is already close, so he doesn't tease for too much longer. Moving back up he places a gentle kiss to one of Castiel's hipbones, and then the other, before hooking his thumbs into the elastic of the boxers and pulling them down. Cas lifts his hips so that Dean can pull his boxers completely off, and Dean tosses them aside on the floor. Cas spreads his legs, allowing Dean to slide between them, and Dean doesn't even pause before taking Castiel's hot, pulsing length into his mouth.

                The sound Castiel makes is almost enough to make Dean come in his pants right then and there. He wraps his fingers around the base of Castiel's dick, to stave off his orgasm, and Castiel keens helplessly, hips wriggling as he forces himself not to thrust up into Dean's face. Dean sinks down slowly, relaxing his throat, overriding that initial instinct to choke. He breathes out through his nose and savors the feeling of Castiel's weeping dick bumping the back of his throat.

                Castiel is quite large, definitely larger than Dean expected him to be, and it takes a few tries before Dean is able to get all of him into his mouth. He bobs up and down a few times, drooling unattractively, before finally swallowing Cas all the way down, his nose buried in Castiel's trimmed, soft pubes. A steady stream of keens and moans escape Castiel. In reality, they're actually quiet, but in the silence of the room, they seem overly loud and downright filthy, and it just makes Dean throb in his boxers.

                He reaches his free hand down and cups Castiel's balls, rolling them gently as he pulls off again, bobbing his head up and down, tasting blots of salty precome, feeling the vein on the underside of Cas's cock pulsing wildly in time with his heart. Dean knows Castiel is close, and that's almost disappointing, because Dean has never _ever_ enjoyed sucking someone's dick as much as he enjoys sucking Castiel's. It's always just been a chore, a way to get someone turned on so they can fuck and finish. But blowing Castiel is so much better. Dean could do this for hours, if it didn't mean a bad case of lockjaw.

                He sucks down particularly hard, and Castiel cries out, jerking a bit. Dean almost thinks he's about to come, but Cas doesn't, just pants and moans, and Dean smiles, sucking down once more just to draw that wonderful sound out of Cas again. It's so much fun, hearing Cas react. It's like driving a car. Dean can control exactly how loud Cas will be, based on how hard Dean sucks, or how deep he swallows Cas down.

                He has a sudden thought, something he wants to do, but Castiel said he was a virgin, which means he's never done this before. Dean reluctantly pulls off of Castiel's dick, licking his lips as drool and precome slide down his chin. Castiel breathes out in temporary relief and a little bit of disappointment, his dick still hard and aching, and he looks down at Dean in the dark. "Are you okay?" he asks, his voice shaking, "Did I hurt you?"

                Dean chuckles a little, because Castiel sounds so concerned despite the fact that he's half out of his mind with need. "I'm okay Cas," he replies, "Can I try something? I don't want to push you too far or anything but-"

                "Do whatever you want," Castiel interrupts him, "Don't worry about me. You're not going to scare me away."

                Dean stares up at his silhouette for a moment, feeling a wave of affection roll through him. He huffs a little laugh, and then says nothing more, leaning down and taking Castiel's dick into his mouth once more. Cas gasps sharply as he does, and Dean pulls off very briefly, spitting into his own hand. Then, glancing up at Cas once more, he wraps his lips around Castiel's cock again, while moving his free hand down.

                He rubs his saliva all over his fingers, getting them nice and wet, before sliding his hand down past Castiel's balls, pressing a thumb against Cas's perineum. Castiel bites out a particularly loud moan as one of Dean's spit-slick fingers circles his hole. Cas's whole body clenches up very suddenly, but then relaxes a moment later as Dean bobs his head up and down on his shaft.

                Dean runs his tongue up the throbbing vein of Castiel's cock, at the same time as he slowly, gently presses a finger inside Castiel. Cas tenses up, and Dean pauses, waiting for him to relax again before continuing to push forward, working one slick finger inside Castiel. The pitch of Cas's moans changes, suddenly higher, and _God_ he's unbelievably tight, his hole fluttering around Dean's finger as he slowly works his way all the way inside, buried up to the last knuckle. He leaves it there for a moment, allowing Cas time to adjust, and then starts to thrust that one finger in and out in time with the bobbing of his head around Cas's shaft.

                Small, whimpering moans are punched out of Castiel with every gentle glide of Dean's finger, and when the ring of muscles finally relaxes and loosens up a bit, Dean withdraws his finger and _slowly_ adds a second. His fingers are slick with saliva, but for a virgin-tight guy like Castiel, that's really not enough lube to make this an easy process. So Dean just stick with two fingers for now, slowly working them inside, thrusting his hand in time with his mouth, swallowing Cas down.

                He curves his fingers inside Castiel's hot hole, and he knows the exact moment when his fingertips brush over Cas's prostate, because Castiel cries out, bucking up in surprised pleasure. Dean chokes a little as Cas's dick hits the back of his throat, but he pulls back, chuckling a little. His laughter sends vibrations down Castiel's dick, making him groan as he breathes out a nearly inaudible "sorry" for making Dean gag. But Dean just ignores it, thrusting his fingers inside Castiel again and finding that little bundle of nerves.

                He sucks hard on the head of Castiel's dick as he hits his prostate again and again, picking up the pace, Castiel's whole body vibrating and shaking in his hands. Dean feels powerful, reducing Castiel to this quivering, moaning, sweating mess. He uses all his best tricks in these last few moments, teasing his tongue at the most sensitive part of Castiel's cock, right under the head, while his fingers continue to mercilessly brush over Castiel's prostate.

                Cas stutters out a strangled warning that he's going to come, his hands sliding up and gripping Dean's hair tightly to try to pull him off. But, just like at the party, Dean just swallows Castiel down, wanting nothing more than to taste that salty release.

                He gets his wish a moment later when Castiel cries out brokenly, almost sobbing, his dick twitching as he shoots his release deep into Dean's mouth. Dean swallows it all, pumping his fingers in and out of Castiel, Cas's hole tightening rhythmically around the digits. Dean sucks a few times, working Castiel through it, and it's only when Castiel sags into the pillows, his dick softening in Dean's mouth, that Dean pulls off with a wet _plop_ , withdrawing his fingers from Castiel's hole.

                Dean glances around, and just ends up using the edge of his own boxers to clean his fingers off of his own spit before crawling back up the bed and settling down next to Cas, where he's laying there breathing heavily, staring up at the ceiling. Dean can see the silhouette of his sharp nose, and those lips parted in the moonlight as he pants.

                He chuckles a little. "Are you okay?" he asks, and in the darkness he can see Castiel turns his head so he's looking at him.

                "Yeah," Cas breathes, swallowing with a click, lying there boneless and sated, "That was incredible."

                Dean grins. Sucking Cas off is quickly becoming one of his favorite things to do. "You're welcome," he says, and Castiel lets out a low laugh, turning on his side and draping an arm over Dean's hip, hugging him there so they're lying face to face. Dean stiffens a little when Cas brushes his scars, but Cas doesn't say anything, so Dean relaxes. He's still painfully hard in his boxers, but he's rather just lay here with Cas. He's not sure how he'll react if Castiel tries to touch him. He wonders if he'll panic like he did at the party. He'd rather not find out.

                "Dean?" Cas asks.

                "Hm?"

                Castiel hesitates, and Dean can almost see him biting his lip. "Why do you like me?" he asks.

                Dean smiles a little, reaching out and placing his hand on the side of Castiel's sweaty neck, his thumb tracing his jaw, pressing gently because he knows there's still a decent bruise there from the fight today at school. "Haven't we already been over this?"

                Cas sighs a little. "You never really gave me a straight answer," he says, hesitating, his fingers flexing on Dean's side, tracing his skin, "I just don't understand. You're so...you're so amazing, and _perfect_ , and I'm... _me_ , and it just doesn't make any sense why you like me."

                Dean's eyebrows press together. "What's that supposed to mean?"

                The blankets rustle a little as Cas shrugs. "I just...I'm so ordinary," he says, "I don't understand how someone as magnificent as you could like someone as plain as me. What's so special about me?"

                Dean almost smiles, feeling a little flutter in his stomach when Castiel calls him magnificent. But that thrill is overpowered by the shock he feels when Castiel calls himself _plain_.

                All at once, before Dean even knows what he's doing, he rolls on top of Castiel, boxing him in with his arms, startling a surprised gasp out of the blue-eyed boy as Dean leans down really close, inches from his face. "Don't you _dare_ call yourself ordinary Cas," he says, ignoring the way Castiel shrinks back a little into the pillows, "You are _anything_ but ordinary."

                The moonlight glints briefly off of Cas's eyes, and he seems to hesitate before he swallows. "I don't understand..." he says quietly, sounding so unsure, and Dean is overcome with confusion. How could Castiel see himself as anything less than extraordinary? How could this absolutely stupefying human being lying naked in Dean's arms think that he's not worthy of a scumbag like Dean? Think that Dean is _better_ than him, _too good_ for him?

                And then it suddenly hits Dean.

                It's painfully obvious that Castiel is used to being bullied, it used to being beaten down and torn apart. The way Cas used to react to Dean and his friends beating him up last semester was a conditioned reaction.

                Castiel has spent his whole life being told that he's not good enough, being beaten down and stepped on and abused by people _just_ like Dean - by Dean _himself_ \- and somewhere along the line, Castiel convinced himself that all those scumbags and dickheads like Dean were right. Castiel convinced himself that he's not worthy. That he doesn't deserve to be treated with kindness. How fucked up is that?

                It's like a punch to Dean's gut. All that guilt he's been trying to ignore, all the regret he feels for treating Cas so badly, for beating him up, calling him names, leaving him in those woods half-dead...it all comes flooding back. Dean grits his teeth, exhaling an angry sigh, and he closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against Castiel's.

                "I'm so sorry Cas," he whispers, feeling Castiel relax marginally beneath him.

                Castiel cocks his head a little. Dean feels it where their foreheads are pressed together, and if he wasn't so overwhelmed with guilt right now, he would have smiled at how adorable it is. "For what?"

                Dean shakes his head slightly, pulling back a bit and looking down at Cas even though he can't really see him in the dark. "For everything I did to you last semester. For hurting you and leaving you in the woods, and letting Al and all of them beat on you."

                Castiel shakes his head. "Dean, please don't," he says, "I don't want you to apologize. It wasn't your fault-"

                "No, Cas, man, just let me get this out," Dean interrupts, "It _was_ my fault. I didn't have to do that to you, but I did. I was too weak to not go along with my friends, and I _tormented_ you. And now..." Dean pauses, huffing a little breath of disgust and disbelief, "Now you're wondering why a guy as _awesome_ as me could like someone like you, when really, it should be the other way around."

                "What do you mean?" Cas asks, his breath ghosting over Dean's lips. They're still only a few inches apart.

                Dean chews on the inside of his cheek and shakes his head, huffing one humorless laugh. "You're _incredible_ Cas," he says, "And the fact that you could even for a _moment_ think otherwise, the fact that you don't _believe_ me when I say that, just _kills_ me. Because I _did_ this to you."

                Castiel begins to protest, shaking his head slightly. "Dean, you didn't do-"

                "Yes I did man," Dean interrupts again, placing his hand gently on the side of Castiel's face, "Maybe not just me, but I played my part. You are such a good person, and _I'm_ the one who doesn't deserve _you_. Not the other way around. I'm a scumbag, and you're just the most incredible person. And I'm sorry because I took part in beating you down and making you not believe that."

                Cas just stares up at him silently for a long moment. It's so long, in fact, that Dean almost thinks that maybe Castiel has fallen asleep, if that's even possible. But then Cas raises his hands, placing them on either side of Dean's face. Even though it's dark, Dean stares down where he thinks Castiel's eyes are, feeling heavy with guilt and remorse. One of Castiel's thumbs traces along Dean's bottom lip, plump and swollen from kissing.

                "I forgive you," Cas says, and Dean stares down at him, letting those words sink in. He expects Castiel to say something else, but he leaves it at that, and Dean exhales a little, swallowing hard. The guilt he feels doesn't disappear, but having Castiel's forgiveness seems to sooth it a bit, like aloe over a burn. Dean doesn't _deserve_ to be forgiven, but he'll accept that for now.

                He leans down and presses his lips gently to Castiel's, kissing him once, very gently, like Castiel is made of glass. "I'm sorry," Dean whispers against his lips, "I'm so sorry." Cas cards his fingers through Dean's hair and shakes his head, kissing Dean back.

                "Just give me more mind-blowing orgasms and you're forgiven," Cas says, and Dean blinks, a laugh startled out of him.

                "That can be arranged," he says, kissing Castiel once more, deeply, before flopping onto his back next to him, sinking into the soft blankets. His erection has waned a bit in his boxers, and he breathes out a sigh, trying to swallow back his remaining guilt. He supposes that will just have to go away on its own.

                "I have one question though," Castiel suddenly asks, laying on his side facing Dean. Dean turns his head so he's looking at him, seeing nothing but his silhouette.

                "What's that?"

                Castiel seems to hesitate, and then swallows. "Why me? Why did you and your friends choose me?" he asks, "I mean, I know it wasn't _just_ me. You guys picked on Barry Cook, and Krissy Chambers, and those two boys from the school newspaper too. But...why did you choose me too?"

                Dean blows out all the breath in his lungs, running one hand through his hair. "Well...I can't speak for my friends, but personally?" he says, "I just...I don't know. I think I blamed you for why I'm so angry all the time."

                Castiel's forehead creases in confusion. "Why are you really angry?" he asks.

                Dean bites his lip, worrying it as he stares up at the ceiling, watching the origami cranes on their mobile cast faint shadows in the moonlight. He doesn't really want to get into his deep-set anger issues. At least not right now. He doesn't want to put all of this on Cas. So he just shrugs with a small sigh. "It's not important," he says, looking back over at Castiel.

                Cas just stares at him in the dark for a long moment, and Dean can almost see the gears turning in his head. Dean just waits patiently, because if anything, he deserves to let Castiel have a chance to work out his thoughts, even if Dean is scared that Cas will realize he really _is_ too good for Dean. Instead, he just changes the subject a bit.

                "I hit a guy once," Cas says, and Dean's eyebrows shoot up.

                "You did?"

                Cas huffs a little breath. "I was living in Texas at the time, and this guy cornered me in the locker room in middle school. He punched me and broke my nose and I just...I just lunged at him and beat him bloody. I ended up breaking his rib, and one of them punctured his lung...and his face was just a mess."

                Dean's lips part in surprise, actually a little impressed, but he doesn't get a chance to say anything before Cas continues.

                "He had to go to the hospital obviously," Castiel says, "And it just...it felt so _awful_ , hurting someone like that. I couldn't sleep for a month afterwards. And I told myself I'd never hurt anybody ever again like I hurt that guy...I don't even remember his name."

                 A realization dawns on Dean. "Is that why you never fight back? When people are beating you up?"

                Dean doesn't see it, but he hears Castiel nod in the dark. "I'd rather just...take the beating and go home. It feels worse actually hurting someone back. The guilt."

                Dean huffs a little breath, shaking his head slightly. "And you say you're not a good person," he muses in disbelief.

                Castiel just snorts. "I'm not. I just don't like seeing other people get hurt," he says, one of his hands sliding out across the blankets. Dean feels Cas's fingers wrap around the amulet hanging around his neck still, and he successfully represses a shiver when Castiel's hand brushes his chest while he plays with the necklace. Dean forgets what he was about to say, just laying there enjoying having Castiel close by, wanting to kiss him again.

                They lay there in silence for a little while before Cas pulls in another breath to speak. "Are you still friends with Crowley?" he asks Dean, and Dean's eyebrows press together.

                "Why do you ask?"

                Castiel shrugs as he fiddles with the amulet. "Today when Alastair and Gordon and Zach were hitting me...Crowley didn't participate," he says, and Dean's eyebrows shoot up again in surprise, "And afterwards, when the others ran away, Crowley helped me up and...and wiped Al's spit off my face."

                Dean feels a wave of rage wash through him. "Alastair spit on you?"

                Castiel nods. "It's okay," he says, "Crowley cleaned it off my face and...I don't know. He was nice. It was unusual."

                Dean grinds his teeth so hard he can hear them squeak, trying really hard to force his anger back down his throat. All he wants to do is tear Alastair's throat out with his teeth. He wants to feel Al's bones snap. But he ignores those thoughts and tries to focus on what Cas is talking about. "Crowley helped you?"

                Cas nods. "Yes," he replies, "I wasn't expecting it but...he was very kind."

                The corner of Dean's mouth quirks in a brief little smile. "Crowley has been my best friend for a long time," he says, "He's really an alright guy, he's just...I don't know. He's caught up in the wrong crowd. Like me. Maybe he's finally coming around."

                Castiel hums in acknowledgement and says nothing more. Dean licks his lips, his mind wandering a bit. Goose bumps sprout on his skin as he feels Cas's fingers brush his bare chest, and Dean just really wants to kiss him again. But he has no idea if Castiel wants that too, after their talk. Maybe Cas is tired.

                But Dean at least wants _one_ more kiss before they go to sleep. So he props himself up on one elbow and shifts a little closer to Cas, leaning down and pressing their lips together. He feels that familiar rush roll through him just like every time they kiss, and to his surprise, Castiel doesn't even hesitate before kissing him back. The hand Castiel has on Dean's necklace moves to the back of his head, carding his fingers through his hair and deepening the kiss much more quickly than before.

                It takes mere _minutes_ before Dean starts to feel his dick stir again in his boxers, and when Castiel's tongue slides into his mouth once more, Dean rolls over, slotting one thigh between Cas's legs and laying over him, kissing him deeply. They just lay like that for a while, kissing and working themselves up into panting messes again. Dean feels Castiel's spent dick twitching and beginning to fill once more, and he feels himself rapidly hardening too, his erection pressing to Castiel's hip as they rock together.

                Cas moans lowly again and rolls his hips upwards, pressing his naked dick to Dean's thigh. Dean gasps sharply and grips Castiel tighter, pressing down into the kiss as that aching _need_ consumes him again, urgent like before. He rocks rhythmically against Cas, rubbing his trapped erection in the crease where Castiel's thigh meets his hip, rutting there as Castiel bucks up against him.

                Castiel's hands wander once again to Dean's back, smoothing down his rippling muscles and soft skin. Dean enjoys the soothing cool trail they leave behind on his burning muscles, but this time, Cas's hands don't stop, and Dean stiffens with a sharp gasp as Castiel cups his ass, one cheek in each hand, squeezing gently. His kissing slows and the rhythm of his hips falters as Cas grips his ass, but Castiel doesn't seem to notice, rutting up against him and kissing away.

                A tiny tendril of fear slides like a parasite into the back of Dean's mind. He feels his heart skip a little as Castiel's hands squeeze his ass, because he remember someone _else's_ hand there, unwanted and invasive. But Dean tries to shake that residual fear away, tries to brush off the crawling sensation just beneath his skin. He reminds himself that, not only is he on top right now, but that this is _Cas_ , and no one else is here. And Cas is just touching his ass. This is okay. Dean doesn't have to be scared. This is okay.

                He forces his sudden tension back down his throat, and exhales slowly, beginning to kiss Castiel back again, slowly picking up where he left off, rolling his hips down to meet Castiel's every time he bucks up. Castiel's hands remain on his ass for a while, gently massaging the muscled globes, pulling Dean down with every thrust as they grind. Dean eventually relaxes for the most part, picking up that rhythm again, feeling that heat coiling low in his gut, despite the fact that the crawling sensation is still there in the back of his brain, picking at him, nipping and biting like a tick.

                Dean forces himself to ignore the crawling feeling, and he groans a bit, just trying to enjoy the feeling of Cas writhing beneath him. Maybe he can suck Castiel off again. Make him come again. That would be fun, to see how many times Dean can make Cas come in one night. He fantasizes about it as he ruts against Cas, kissing him deeply, plundering his sweet mouth with his tongue.

                Dean has _almost_ forced the bad thoughts from his mind, when suddenly, one of Castiel's hands moves. It slides down Dean's ass to the back of his thigh, and then moves slowly to the side, making its way to Dean's front. Dean stiffens a bit again as Castiel's wandering hand settles on the inside of Dean's thigh between them, and that crawling feeling returns, like a fingernail scratching away at the back of Dean's skull. His kissing trails off a bit, and when Castiel's hand slides slowly and carefully up Dean's thigh and ghosts ever-so-gently over Dean's erection through his boxers, Dean sucks in a sharp gasp and abruptly pulls away, breaking off the kiss.

                Fear lances through his entire body as Castiel's hand touches his dick through the fabric of his underwear, and his fingers flex, gently massaging Dean's shaft.

                "W-wait," Dean stutters shakily, breathing hard, and he realizes there are fine tremors rolling through his shoulders and down his arms as he props himself up over Castiel. Cas immediately removes his hand from Dean's crotch, staring up at him as Dean bows his head, shivering and gasping, his heart suddenly pounding twice as fast. His skin feels like it's on fire, but not in a good way. Phantom pains are flaring up along his side. _Fuck_.

                "Dean? Are you alright?" Cas asks, obvious concern in his voice as Dean trembles above him. Dean feels his erection wilting, and he wants to punch himself in the head. _God dammit_ , why? Why can't he do this? Ghost Town was almost two months ago. Why can't Dean just get over it?

                "Dean?" Castiel asks again, softly, when Dean doesn't answer. Dean nods his head shakily, trying to slow his racing heart.

                "I'm okay," he says, "I'm okay. I just...gimme a minute."

                Cas doesn't say anything, and Dean belatedly realizes that Castiel has removed his other hand from Dean's ass too, has relocated it to the small of Dean's back. It feels good, resting there. It grounds Dean. He feels nausea churning a bit in his gut. _God_ , why can't he do this?

                With a shuddering breath, he leans down, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in Castiel's neck for a moment, breathing in that sweet, earthy scent that belongs _just_ to Castiel. This is Cas. This is _Cas_. There is _no one_ else here. Dean shouldn't be so scared. Nothing bad is going to happen to him here. He just rests there for a moment, breathing Cas in, shuddering and waiting for his skin to stop crawling.

                Cas's hand runs up and down his spine soothingly, and although Castiel isn't saying anything, Dean knows that Cas can tell something is wrong. Dean is glad that Castiel isn't pushing him to talk about it. Where would Dean even begin?

                "Did I do something wrong?" Castiel asks quietly, trailing his fingers gently over the knobs of Dean's spine.

                Dean swallows hard, pulling in another long breath, inhaling Cas's comforting smell. "No Cas," he sighs shakily, "You didn't do anything wrong. It's okay, I'm fine."

                Cas places his palm flat against Dean's back, just stroking his skin softly with his thumb. "You don't seem fine."

                Dean huffs a little humorless laugh, reluctantly pulling his face away from Cas's neck again, kissing him once, gently. "I'm alright," he repeats, "I'll be right back, okay? Where's your bathroom?"

                Cas studies him in the darkness for a long moment, and then lets his hand slide away from Dean's back. "The last door on the right at the end of the hall," he replies, nodding his head towards the hallway.

                Dean forces a small smile, even though Cas can't see it, and then leans down to give Castiel a quick peck on the lips again before pushing himself up, trying his best not to break into a run as he leaves the bedroom and heads down the hall towards the bathroom.

                He closes the door behind himself, his hands shaking violently, and he crosses the room to the mirror. It takes him a  moment to raise his eyes to look at his reflection, and when he does, it just makes him feel worse. He's sweating and pale and has dark rings under his eyes that seem to have just appeared out of nowhere. He stares into his own eyes, pale green in the lights of the bathroom.

                "Snap out of it princess," he mutters to himself in disgust, twisting on the water and splashing his face once, trying to wash away the feeling of _dirtyusedwrong_ clinging to his skin. He wants to give this to Castiel. He wants Cas to be able to pleasure him the way Dean enjoys pleasuring Cas. He _owes_ this to Cas. He can't just deny him now. And besides, how is Dean ever supposed to get better and move on from what happened at Ghost Town, if he never lets Castiel even touch him that way? The way Dean's been touched so many times _before_ the incident at Ghost Town, and been completely fine with it.

                He raises his eyes to the mirror again, watching the water drip off his lashes and the tip of his nose in sparkling drops. He sniffs once, glancing down at the Band-Aids littering his arm. Many of his burns have lost their scabs and are almost fully healed. The very first ones he gave himself have finally stopped peeling and are just angry red scars that Dean knows will eventually fade to white like the burns covering his side from The Accident.

                He feels his erection wilting a bit in his boxers, but standing here just focusing on his breathing for a moment has slowed the beating of his heart a bit. He grits his teeth, locking eyes with his reflection once again, forcing himself to stop shaking.

                He can do this.

                He can let himself be touched.

                He can let Castiel touch him. This isn't wrong. He's safe here. Nothing bad is going to happen here.

                He can let Castiel do this for him.

                Dean needs this to be okay.

                Sniffing again, he swipes a hand over his face, wiping away the remaining water, and grinding his teeth, setting his jaw.

                He _will_ do this. He _has_ to. He _has_ to get better. He _needs_ to get the fuck over Ghost Town.

                Dean clenches his hands into fists at his sides, staring at himself for another long moment in the mirror. Then, with determination he has to act on quickly before it fizzles out and dies, he sets his shoulders and turns, leaving the bathroom and walking back to Castiel's room where Cas is still laying naked on his bed, propped up on his elbows, just a beautiful outline in the darkness.

                Cas looks up as Dean walks back in and crosses the room to the bed.

                "Is everything okay?" he asks Dean, but Dean doesn't respond. Instead, he just climbs onto the bed, crawling over Cas and crushing their mouth together, startling a moan from Castiel. Dean ignores his nausea, and the phantom pains, and the fear in his chest squeezing his heart. He ignores the crawling under his skin, and he kisses Cas ferally, successfully snuffing out any other questions Castiel may have wanted to ask by rolling his hips again.

                Castiel groans, clinging to Dean's shoulders tightly as their hips meet once more, and despite Dean's racing mind, he feeling his wilting erection begin to fill yet again as he ruts against Castiel. They kiss like that for a few minutes, Dean breathing hard and still shaking, although not as bad.

                When Dean feels his erection return in full, he very deliberately reaches down, taking one of Castiel's hands, and placing it over his dick still trapped in his boxers. Dean groans at the feeling as Castiel's hand automatically wraps around his shaft through the fabric and begins to rub up and down. It feels amazing, and Dean tries desperately to ignore the crawling _wrongness_ and roiling nausea as he rolls his hips forward, thrusting into Castiel's hand.

                A powerful burst of fear explodes through him as Cas very suddenly pushes upwards, flipping them over so Dean is on his back and Castiel is on top of him. Dean's entire body tenses in fright, and he actually embarrasses himself by _whimpering_ , but Castiel doesn't hold him down. He doesn't hurt him, or try to do anything to Dean that Dean doesn't want. Instead, one of Castiel's hands comes up and cradles Dean's face with painful gentleness, and he kisses Dean again, his other hand sliding back down towards Dean's crotch.

                This time, Cas dips his hand under the waistband of Dean's boxers, and Dean stiffens as Cas wraps his fingers around Dean's shaft, bare skin on bare skin. He stutters out a surprised groan as Castiel touches him, clinging desperately to Castiel's shoulders as Cas starts to move, stroking Dean's weeping dick slowly while he slides his tongue into Dean's mouth.

                Dean finds himself willingly spreading his legs wider, allowing Cas access to his dick, rolling his hips upwards into the circle of Castiel's fingers. Cas's thumb brushes over Dean's leaking slit, and Dean bites out a loud groan, muffled against Castiel's lips. He forces himself not to shake, forces his racing heart to slow, swallows back the fear and sickness, and he just reminds himself again and again that this is _Castiel_ above him, and no one else, and he's safe here, and he's allowed to enjoy this.

                Castiel pulls his mouth away from Dean's briefly, slowing his hand marginally on Dean's throbbing dick. He stares down at Dean for a moment as Dean pants, feeling tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.

                "Can I?" Castiel asks in a wrecked voice, and Dean doesn't know exactly what Cas is asking for, but it doesn't really matter. He'll take whatever Cas wants to give.

                "You can do whatever you want Cas," Dean replies, his voice cracking a little as he forces himself not to be afraid. Castiel studies him in the darkness for another long moment, and then leans down, pressing their lips together again. He runs his hand up and down Dean's dick a few more times, and then Castiel's mouth leaves Dean's, trailing down his neck, pressing little kisses there.

                Dean realizes Cas is doing the same thing that Dean did to him, and his heart skips a beat as Castiel slowly starts making his way down Dean's body, pressing kisses to his collarbone and sternum, sucking on one of Dean's nipples and making Dean's back arch off the bed like a swan. Dean gasps and groans, and Cas continues his way down, licking at Dean's skin.

                He hesitates briefly when his tongue finds the change in texture as it grazes over Dean's scars, but Castiel disregards it, kissing the skin there and shuffling down the bed, kneeling between Dean's spread legs. He's much less graceful about it than Dean, and he sits up, peeling Dean's boxers down carefully, like someone diffusing a bomb. Dean would laugh, if he wasn't so nervous.

                Dean lifts his hips and allows Cas to pull his boxers completely off, just like Dean did to Cas, and Castiel tosses Dean's underwear to the side on the floor. Dean's hands grip the blankets beneath him as Cas dips down, placing small kisses at the base of Dean's dick, Dean's legs twitching with every one, little huffs of breath punched out of him in anticipation as the creeping, crawling, awful memories of Ghost Town slowly fade to the back of his mind.

                Suddenly Dean is shaking for _different_ reasons now. He's not shaking out of fear or nausea. He's shaking from anticipation, shaking because of the burning climax  building slowly in his lower abdomen. He gasps hoarsely as Castiel wraps his mouth around Dean's dick, his lips stretching around the head and his tongue laving at Dean's leaking slit.

                Castiel covers his teeth and copies what Dean did to him earlier, sinking down slowly, and Dean trembles with the effort not to thrust upwards into that tight, wet heat, because he knows this is Castiel's first blowjob, and he doesn't want to make him choke. Cas can only take about half of Dean's considerable length into his mouth at first, but he uses his hand to massage the remaining few inches in time with the bobbing of his head.

                He pulls off, swirling his tongue around the head, and then dips back down once more, setting up and steady rhythm. Dean was already close when Castiel began, and he reaches down, running his hand through Castiel's soft hair, gripping the strands and gently pressing on the back of Cas's head, silently urging for more. He gasps and groans particularly loudly when Cas sucks down hard, massaging his balls just like Dean did to him.

                Dean squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on remembering that this is _Cas_ , his lips slack and forehead crunched as he feels his orgasm building. Castiel's technique is a little sloppy, but for a first-timer, he does pretty well. He only chokes once, but quickly pulls back and relaxes his throat before dipping down again. Dean nearly loses his mind when Castiel manages to swallow him down, but he forces himself to remain still as Castiel's throat ripples around his length.

                When Castiel picks up the pace a little, drooling and bobbing up and down on Dean's dick, Dean stiffens as he feels his orgasm peaking. He gives Castiel hair a warning tug.

                "Gonna come Cas," he groans, his voice weak, and Castiel pulls off of his dick, stripping his hand once, twice, three more times up and down Dean's length before Dean cries out his release, shooting ropes of white across his own stomach. Cas smiles as he works Dean through it, and Dean feels a couple tears running sideways out of the corners of his eyes and over his temples, disappearing into his hairline.

                His back arches off the bed, and then his whole body melts, and he collapses back into the blankets, breathing hard, shuddering as his come starts to cool on his skin. As his dick softens, Cas lets go of it, and Dean blinks as he feels Castiel swipe a finger through one of the little puddles of come on Dean's stomach. Then, to Dean's shock, he sees Castiel's silhouette bring the come-coated finger up to him mouth, sucking the white fluid off of the digit. Castiel smacks his lips once, and then hums a bit. "That's not as bad as I thought it was going to be," he says, leaning over Dean and reaching for a tissue from the nightstand, using it to mop up the rest of the come from Dean's stomach, "Next time I'll finish you with my mouth."

                Dean chuckles a little, his voice hoarse from groaning so loud, and he pulls Castiel down, kissing him deeply, tasting himself on Castiel's tongue. Cas pulls back after a moment. "Are you alright?"

                Dean runs a hand through Castiel's hair, ignoring the last remaining tendrils of _wrong_ he feels still lingering at the surface of his mind. "Don't worry about me," he says to Cas, leaning up and kissing him again before stifling a yawn. Cas tucks his face into Dean's collarbone, yawning once himself.

                "Did I do okay?" he asks Dean, and Dean chuckles.

                "I figured that was obvious," he replies, still catching his breath, his body tingling post-climax.

                Cas chuckles a little, settling himself further against Dean. Dean rolls onto his side so they're face-to-face, their legs tangled together, noses almost touching. He kisses Castiel one more time, and in the darkness, even he can tell that Cas's eyes are closed. "Goodnight Dean," Cas says, yawning again.

                Dean smiles a little, swallowing hard. "Night Cas."

                It takes no more than ten minutes for Castiel's breathing to even out. Dean lays there with his eyes wide open, staring at Castiel's silhouette in the moonlight, listening to Cas breathe. Dean's hands are still shaking slightly, and it takes him several more minutes before he realizes he has a few tears trickling down his face. Annoyed with himself, he reaches up and scrubs them away, sniffing quietly, hoping Castiel is a deep sleeper.

                Cas doesn't stir. Dean ignores the next few tears that trickle down his face, reminding himself again and again that he's safe, that nothing bad will happen to him here. This is a safe place.

                He reaches a shaking hand out, ghosting his fingers along the bridge of Cas's sharp nose. He lets his fingertips trace Castiel's lips, feeling his steady breaths as he sleeps, and Dean's fingers trail under Cas's eyes, and down the side of his face, along his jaw. Dean remembers all the bruises he once put there on these spots he's tracing now. Cas stirs a little and Dean pulls his hand away, swallowing hard and forcing himself to stop crying.

                It takes a couple hours for Dean to fall asleep. He's not sure if he feels any better, if he feels like he's healed after letting Castiel touch him.

                But all he knows, is that it feels fucking amazing to have Castiel laying here next to him. And even though Dean's fucked up in the head, and he's got issues that could fill libraries, and he can't even get a _blowjob_ without crying...at least he has Cas. That much he can say, right?


	20. Secrecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay <3 Got into a couple car crashes and work has been a mess, but on the bright side, I turned 21! :) I hope this chapter suffices :) I originally had a whole lot more planned for this chapter but I had to split it into 2 because it ended up being so long :/ Here's the first part :P

                The first thing Dean becomes aware of is how _comfortable_ he is in the morning. He's floating in a sea of warmth, and there's something - no, _someone_ \- pressed up snuggly against his back, heating his entire body. He's confused for all of half a second before he remembers where he is, and without even opening his eyes, a tiny smile curls Dean's full lips.

                Castiel is spooned up behind him, and as Dean breathes in and out slowly, he feels one of Cas's arms draped over his midsection, gently rising and falling with every breath Dean takes. Dean has no idea how long he lays there just enjoying the soft warmth of Castiel pressed bare-skinned against him. This is how things should always be.

                This is a very good way to wake up.

                It takes Dean longer than usual to open his eyes, and when he does, it's like prying elevator doors apart. His lids are heavy, his _head_ is heavy, and it occurs to him that he's actually physically drained from spending so much time crying last night after Cas fell asleep. Which is stupid, and Dean feels childish for even crying in the first place. He grimaces slightly at the tightness of his skin right under his eyes. His face is crusted with tear tracks and salt.

                He turns his eyes up towards the ceiling and spots Castiel's origami crane mobile spinning lazily above the bed, each little paper creature reflecting the rising sun. Dean's brain doesn't seem to be working full-power yet, and when he glances at the clock on Cas's nightstand, he understands why. It's only a little after seven, and when Dean finally stopped crying and fell asleep last night, it couldn't have been any earlier than four.

                The time hits him like a bomb, and a wave of residual exhaustion washes over him. Dean whines and burrows a little further under the covers, pressing himself back against Castiel's warmth as the chill of the room slithers its way into the bed. He remembers Cas saying the heater is broken in the house, and Dean can actually see his breath in little clouds of fog in front of his face. He wonders how Cas stands sleeping here, especially during the winter on the East coast. Then again, Dean's house isn't much warmer.

                Dean sighs and lets his eyes fall closed again, but there's a nagging sensation that something isn't quite right. He lays there for a good twenty minutes just trying to fall back asleep, before he realizes why he woke up in the first place. There's a dull, stinging throb in his forearm, right where his cigarette burns are. Dean wrinkles his nose in displeasure, trying to ignore the pain, but it's annoying and insistent.

                He opens his eyes again and dares to lift the covers just a bit, shivering as cold air slides over his heated skin. He pulls his forearm away from where it's curled to his chest, and hisses through his teeth as he sees blood coating his skin. _Fuck_. He lifts the covers away more and realizes he must have scratched one of his burns or something, and broken the scab away. It's not bleeding anymore, but there are streaks of blood on his chest and on Castiel's white sheets. _Great_.

                Dean stares at his bloody arm in annoyance. All he wants to do is curl up here with Cas and sleep the day away. But then it occurs to him that he's naked.

                He's completely exposed.

                All at once, Dean's entire body stiffens, and he becomes acutely aware of the fact that the room is now light enough for Cas to see his scars coating his side, and to see the signs of Dean's mutilation marring his pale forearm like beacons of Dean's mental instability.

                _Damn it_ , Dean can't just lay here and wait for Cas to wake up and see him like this. Cas can't see Dean's body - he _can't_. Dean won't let that happen. That would be just the thing to scare Castiel away, and Dean has already done enough in the way of scaring Cas.

                Groaning almost inaudibly under his breath, wanting more than anything to just lay here with Cas and forget about the fact that he's broken, Dean shifts a little, peeling his back away from the heat of Castiel's chest. Their legs are tangled together deep under the covers, and Dean carefully unwinds them, pausing a few times when Cas shifts a little in his sleep.

                Dean actually has to stop and grit his teeth when he pulls the covers off of himself and a blast of cold air hits him. Cas whines in his sleep and the fingers of the hand draped over Dean's midsection tighten, Castiel unconsciously trying to pull Dean's warmth back in. Dean glances back at Cas, and his brow is crinkled in sleepy distress. Dean can't help but stare for a minute, smiling despite his sudden urgency to hide himself in case Cas wakes up.

                Castiel is gorgeous in his sleep. His cheeks are a little flushed, his hair is wild and untamable, and his lips are parted in a slight pout that is almost irresistible. All Dean wants is to lean in and kiss him, just to feel the softness of Cas's mouth. But he can't do that.

                Forcing himself to tear his eyes away, Dean slides out of the bed, wincing at the pull of his bloody arm, savoring the warmth of Cas's arm as it slowly slides off of him the further Dean moves away. Dean shivers when his bare feet touch the cold, hard floorboards, and he glances back briefly as Cas whines again and shifts, rolling over and burrowing himself deeply into the covers. Dean smiles at how childish it is, and then reaches down and snatches his long-sleeved t-shirt up from the floor.

                He pulls it on over his head, feeling himself relax marginally once the fabric is in place and covering all his wounds and scars. He grabs up his boxers and folds them inside out before pulling them on too, and then makes to grab his jeans. He stops when he touches his fingertips to the denim and shivers at how _cold_ the material is. There's no _way_ he's putting those on right now, not when he's so damn cold already.

                He takes a glance back at Castiel still burrowed and snoring in the covers, and then pads quietly over to Cas's dresser, pulling open a few drawers before finding the one with pants inside. He and Cas are about the same size, so Dean pulls out the first pair of non-descript sweatpants he can find and steps into them. They're loose on him, hanging off his hips, and he wonders how they fit Cas when he has a bit narrower hips than Dean.

                Dean stands there awkwardly once he's fully dressed, curling his bare toes to keep them off the ice cold floorboards. He stares over at Cas, debating whether or not he wants to crawl back into bed with him and go back to sleep. But he shouldn't. He needs to clean his arm up, and his stomach is twisting a bit in hunger. Yeah, there's no way he'd be able to fall asleep again now, even if he's tired.

                Sighing, Dean raises his eyes to the window where the sun is coming up, shining right into Castiel's bedroom. There's a tree, right outside the window there. It's unlike any of the other trees in Rail Pass. Most of the trees here are bare and skeletal in the winter months, creaking and black and ominous and lonely in their tangled branches, twisted together. One of them once even held the swinging corpse of Elsa Hautley.

                But the tree outside of Castiel's window is _alive_. It's an evergreen, vibrant and full of spirit, and each needle is coated in a light dusting of snow that fell sometime during the night. The entire street, in fact, is covered in snow, and there are light flakes still falling from the gray morning sky. Despite this, the sun shining in is the brightest orange Dean has seen in a long time. It hits him full on, and Dean stands there trying to soak up some of its warmth for a few minutes before finally turning, taking one last glance back at Castiel as he slips out of the bedroom and wanders down the hall to the bathroom.

                Dean twists on the hot water in the bathroom sink and pulls up his sleeve, rinsing away the residual blood and pulling off the Band-Aids still stuck to his skin, tossing them in the trash and burying them under tissues so Cas doesn't see them there. Dean lifts his shirt and mops away the few little streaks of blood on his chest from where his arm was tucked against it during the night, and then he splashes his face, scrubbing away tear tracks and exhaustion. He wonders how Cas didn't feel the Band-Aids while they were kissing last night, but he hopes that Cas never has to see what Dean's done to himself. Dean plans on keeping his arm safely hidden.

                He steals a bit of mouthwash from under the sink to rinse away the dryness of his morning mouth, and then gives his armpit a smell test, satisfied when he finds that he still smell subtly of Sam's girly lemon-lime body wash. Dean attempts to tame his wild hair somewhat, but the short strands are sticking up every which way and he's too tired right now to put any effort into fixing it.

                He blinks at his reflection for a few moments before rolling his eyes in disgust and turning away, switching off the light in the bathroom and wandering back down the hall. He peeks into Cas's bedroom briefly, finding Cas still asleep in his mountain of blankets, and then wanders down the stairs and into the kitchen. There are still dishes piled up from last night, and Dean doesn't even hesitate before picking them up and starting to wash them. It's the least he can do, after Cas cooked for him _and_ gave him one of the best blowjobs he's ever had. And it wasn't necessarily that the blowjob was very _good_ , per se, although Castiel certainly is a fast learner. But it was more that it was _Cas_ doing it. Somehow, the fact that Castiel was the one between Dean's legs made it so much better. Everything Dean does with Cas is like the best thing Dean has ever experienced. Everything is new.

                He scrubs mindlessly at the dishes, crusted with spaghetti sauce and dry noodles, enjoying the feeling of the hot water running over his hands in the icy chill of the house. The house is shockingly quiet as Dean cleans. Usually in Dean's house, there's shouting, or drunken snoring, or the TV turned up too loud. And if John's not home, it's he and Sammy roughhousing in the living room, or teasing each other over some crappy microwave dinner. Here in Cas's house, it's peaceful, so quiet that Dean can hear himself swallow. But it's somehow not uncomfortable. It's soft and gentle and safe, like wrapping yourself in a blanket that's fresh out of the dryer. It's nice here - even if the heater is broken and Dean has to hug himself for warmth.

                He finishes the dishes quickly, and ends up just piling them on the island counter because he doesn't know where anything goes in this kitchen. His stomach twists and growls again in hunger and Dean chews on his lip. He's not sure if it would be acceptable to cook something for breakfast for the both of them. Sure, Dean cooks for Sammy all the time, and he's cooked for people he's slept with before. But he and Cas aren't exactly in an established relationship or anything. Would cooking for him be too domestic or taking things too far?

                Dean's stomach whines at him again and he glares at it before rolling his eyes. He doesn't want to leave yet - not without saying goodbye to Cas. He may as well just eat here.

                Scratching his chest, Dean opens the fridge, looking inside for eggs or something else that's easy to whip up. He huffs a little laugh when he finds about a dozen half-eaten casseroles stacked on the shelves, and remembers Cas saying that Missouri next door likes to cook for him and Anna a lot. He finds an eighteen pack of eggs on the top shelf and rifles through the drawers, pulling out bacon and cheese with them.

                It takes some searching to find a good pan, and then Dean is throwing together a couple of quick omelets and frying up some bacon. He hums to himself under his breath, and belatedly realizes that he's humming _Learning to Fly_ by Pink Floyd. He remembers Cas mentioning something about really liking that song, and it sort of makes Dean enjoy it more, to be honest, knowing that Cas likes it. Which is stupid and mushy, but Dean is too tired right now to care.

                He's just forking the last strip of bacon out of the pan when he hears a bit of shuffling behind himself, and glances back to see Castiel wandering into the kitchen, all sleep rumpled and adorable. His hair is sticking up in every direction like a porcupine, and he's rubbing one crusty eye with his fist like a small child, wearing just his boxers and the white t-shirt from last night.

                Dean stares at him - he can't help it. Even all disheveled like this, Cas is still just the most extraordinarily gorgeous person Dean has ever seen. He can't stop the little smile that touches at his lips, and he stands there as Cas walks in, waiting for the inevitable awkwardness to ensue. There's always that "morning after" tension, that awkward I've-seen-you-naked elephant in the room after you have sex with someone.

                But as Dean looks at Cas, he feels nothing but calmness and clarity and happiness. There isn't any awkwardness. There isn't any discomfort. There's just the overwhelming urge to kiss Castiel.

                Cas raises his eyes as he yawns, looking around and spotting Dean next to the stove. Dean switches off the burner and plucks the two plates of breakfast up off the counter, holding them up and giving Cas a small smile before stepping forward and setting them on the island counter. "I made breakfast. I hope that's okay," Dean says as Cas blinks away sleepiness. He looks about as tired as Dean still feels, but as Dean watches, Castiel eyes him up and down and a tiny smile graces his pale lips.

                "You're wearing my pants," he says, and Dean nearly comes right then and there at the deep gravel of Cas's voice, freshly ground and scratchy from sleep.

                Dean blushes and glances down at Castiel's sweatpants slung low on his hips. "Sorry," he says, biting his lip, "I just didn't feel like putting on my jeans so early in the morning."

                Cas doesn't say anything, just smiles a bit, eyeing Dean a little hungrily, which makes Dean shift a bit in embarrassed arousal. Then Cas wanders forward, closing the distance between them, and Dean lets out a startled noise of surprise as Castiel leans in and kisses him roughly, too roughly for how tired they both are.

                His sound of surprise is muffled by Cas's lips, and his hands come up to rest automatically on Castiel's sides. Cas wastes no time in backing Dean up against the island counter, pressing their bodies together from hip to chest, and _damn_ this is a nice way to be greeted in the morning. Dean gets over his initial surprise and smiles into the kiss, pressing back against Castiel.

                Cas growls into the kiss slightly, almost like he didn't even mean to, and his hands come up and settle on Dean's hips, thumbs brushing the waistband of the sweatpants Dean stole from his drawer. Dean gasps a little, and Castiel takes the opportunity to plunge his tongue inside Dean's mouth, deepening the kiss quickly. Of all the things Dean expected Cas to do first thing in the morning, kissing him like this was not one of them.

                Dean groans a little as Castiel plunders his mouth, and Cas's hands slide behind Dean, settling on the small of his back and making Dean arch away from the counter, slotting their bodies closer together. Dean is forced backwards a bit, angled over the counter as Cas presses into the kiss, and he clings to Cas's sides, gripping handfuls of his t-shirt. He feels his dick twitch in his pants and lets his own tongue slide into Castiel's mouth as Cas withdraws his.

                Dean had been afraid last night. He hates to admit that to himself, but he'd been afraid when Castiel was on top of him. However, right now, he's not afraid. His heart is suddenly hammering, but not out of fear. It's out of rapidly growing arousal the longer Castiel kisses him. His whole body is vibrating. Kissing in the morning is one of his favorite things, when your mind is still muddled with sleep and you're not quite sure if you're dreaming, but you're hoping to God that you're awake.

                Dean is beginning to really love this side of Castiel that comes out when they kiss. Castiel is inexperienced, sure, but there's a dominant side to him that Dean could easily get used to. He loves the way Cas holds him tight, and digs his fingers into Dean's back. Dean loves the way Cas presses him back against the counter, and slots their bodies together like two pieces of a puzzle. It's perfect. Watching Cas's newfound sexual personality develop is like watching a baby bird hatch. Cas is quickly becoming more comfortable with sex, and honestly, Dean didn't expect Cas to hop aboard so quickly.

                But now, Castiel is the one pressing Dean back against the counter, taking the initiative and the control, plundering Dean's mouth with his tongue and shifting against him. Dean sucks in a sharp breath as he feels Castiel's half-hard dick through those boxers, and Dean realizes that he is also rapidly beginning to fill. _Jesus_ , what a way to wake up in the morning.

                Dean shifts and suddenly their groins are pressed together, and Castiel is kissing him deeply as he rolls his hips forward once, sliding their quickly-hardening shafts together through their pants. Dean shivers and grips Castiel's sides tighter as pleasure burns through him with the sudden newfound friction. Castiel groans as Dean meets the next roll of his hips with one of his own, and within minutes, both of them are rutting slowly against each other, without having removed a single layer of clothing.

                Dean slides one hand up to the back of Castiel's head, weaving his fingers through that soft, messy hair and holding Cas's face to his while they grind. Dean usually doesn't get going this fast. No one, in fact, has ever gotten Dean going this fast. But this is Castiel, so of course Dean is already climbing quickly, feeling his orgasm building slowly but surely in his gut. He moans lowly, and Castiel answers with a deep moan of his own, pressing Dean even harder back, the edge of the counter digging into his spine.

                But he barely notices the pain, gripping Castiel's hair and kissing him roughly, their bodies sliding together. Dean can feel the hard outline of Castiel's dick against his, and he thrust upwards against it, feeling the wetness of precome in his own boxers as his dick throbs in time with his pounding heart. Cas's hands press insistently against Dean's back, forcing him to arch even further still into Cas, and they stand there rutting and grinding and moaning shamelessly for several minutes, panting and gasping, clinging to each other.

                Both of them are still too tired to really think about removing any clothes, so they just remain there kissing and humping, not even caring that they're about to soil their boxers, because this just feels too damn good.

                Dean comes first, and it's with a guttural groan, his entire body stiffening as he pulses in his underwear, legs twitching. He would have lost his balance had Castiel not been holding him up against the counter, and seconds later, Cas is shooting his own load, their lips pressing together so hard it almost hurts. Cas's grip tightens on Dean's back and they thrust a few more times, working themselves through their climax before collapsing back into the counter, breathing hard and holding onto each other.

                They stand there panting for a few minutes in silence, and Dean actually feels a little dizzy, burying his face in Cas's sweaty neck for a moment just to catch his breath. Then, he lets out a little tired chuckle.

                "Wow," he breathes, swallowing with a click, body loose and plaint post-orgasm, "Good morning to you too."

                Cas huffs a small laugh, pulling away from Dean just enough so that he can look at his face. He gives Dean a slow, lingering kiss on his lips, his hands moving out from behind Dean's back and settling gently on his hips again. He smiles. "You look really nice in my pants," he says, and Dean snorts.

                "I just _ruined_ your pants," he replies, shifting a little and grimacing at the sticky pull of come trapped in his underwear.

                Cas blushes a little and shrugs, pecking Dean once more on the mouth, like they've been doing this every day for their whole lives. "I never wear them anyway. They're too big," he replies, and as if to illustrate his point, he slides his fingers just an inch or two under Dean's shirt and brushes at the bare skin of his hips, off of which the pants are hanging low.

                Dean shudders a little as he does, smiling and kissing Cas once more before burying his face in Cas's neck again, breathing in the salty smell of sweat and the earthy smell that belongs just to Cas.

                "Come on," Castiel says, stepping away from Dean and taking his hand, "Let's get changed and we can eat breakfast."

                Dean allows Castiel to pull him upstairs briefly, and Cas lends him a clean pair of boxers for him to change into. This time, he pulls on his jeans, and deposits the soiled sweats and boxers into Castiel's laundry hamper upon Cas's insistence. Cas informs him that he can just pick up his boxers next time he comes over, and Dean feels a little thrill in his gut at the idea that Castiel wants him to come over again.

                They wander back downstairs and nuke their omelets briefly to warm them up again before sitting at the kitchen table and chatting mindlessly as they eat. Cas moans around the first forkful of omelet, and Dean has to force himself not to pop a boner again. It's like everything Cas does goes straight to Dean's dick.

                Castiel looks at Dean with wide eyes as he chews. "I thought you said you couldn't cook," he exclaims, "This is amazing!"

                Dean huffs a little laugh. "It's probably the only thing I _can_ cook that doesn't require a can opener," he replies, "Don't get your hopes up."

                Cas shakes his head as he takes another bite. "Dean Winchester, you underestimate yourself."

                Dean bites the inside of his cheek at the sound of Cas's voice saying his full name. They finish their breakfasts in comfortable silence, their feet brushing under the table, and as they're clearing their dishes, Dean glances at the clock. His face falls.

                "I should probably go pick up Sam from Bobby's house," he says regrettably, tossing his fork in the dishwasher. Cas glances at the clock too and sighs, closing the dishwasher and yawning again, running his hand through his messy hair.

                "I need to go pick up Anna too," he agrees, looking at Dean, and the two of them just stare at each other for a moment. Then Dean steps up and kisses Cas, much more gently this time, so as not to get the both of them worked up again. Castiel tastes like the bacon they just ate, which Dean is _definitely_ alright with, and he smiles into the kiss, cupping Castiel's cheek with one hand.             

                "Will I see you again before school on Monday?" Dean asks as they pull away and start wandering towards the front hall.

                Cas smiles a bit and hands Dean his leather jacket from the coat rack. "We could meet at Hautley's Bend tomorrow if you'd like," he replies, "I have no plans."

                Dean grins and leans in to give him one last kiss. "I'd like that," he says, and then eyes Castiel for another several seconds, just taking it all in. _God_ , he can't believe he's not dreaming right now. This feels unreal.

                As Dean opens the front door, shivering at the blast of icy cold morning air, Cas catching his elbow. "Dean?"

                He looks back. "Yeah?"

                Cas studies his face for a moment, blue eyes darting over his features. "Thank you," he says, "For last night. It was amazing."

                Dean smiles softly, and nods once, blushing a little. God he blushes a lot around this guy.

                He and Cas kiss a total of three more times before Dean finally gets out the door, and even then, Dean glances back and sees Cas watching him walk away through the front window. He grins at Castiel, and then wanders off down the street in the direction of the Singer's household, digging in his pocket for his cigarettes. His hands are shaking a little - he hasn't had a cigarette since yesterday evening and he's starting to get withdrawals.

                He feels light as air, drifting down the road, his heart fluttering a bit more than usual. He's never felt this way before, and as much as it feels amazing, it also scares him. There's a persistent feeling of wrongness in the back of his head, like something bad is going to happen, like he shouldn't let himself get too involved in Castiel. But he can't help it - he likes Cas too much to let him go, and he has no idea how he'd hold himself together if Castiel decided to let _him_ go.

                But he just feels like something will come up and ruin it all. It happens with everything else in Dean's life, so why does he deserve to have Castiel? Why does he deserve this?

                He sucks on his cigarette and tries to just enjoy the happiness he feels burning on the surface, ignoring the usual dark thoughts that are trying to claw their way to the forefront of his mind now that he's left Castiel's house. He just wants to bask in the warmth he feels when he's with Cas. He has a hard time accepting the fact that he's awake right now. He doesn't want to be. He wants to be back in Castiel's bed, with Cas spooned up behind him, sleeping soundly with nothing but good thoughts in mind. It feels good to just _be_ there with Cas, and it suddenly occurs to Dean that all his nightmares happen to him while he's awake.

                He exhales a long cloud of smoke into the icy air, cutting through snowflakes still falling sporadically from the sky. He cradles his burned arm to his chest, the wounds aching and stinging with the rub of his sleeve against them. He briefly considers giving himself another burn, if only to snuff out the bad thoughts that are trying to ruin his good mood, but he decides against it and just flicks his dying cigarette aside, curling in on himself to keep in the warmth and fighting with his own mind the rest of the way to Bobby's house.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel stands at the front window if his house watching Dean the entire way as Dean walks down the street, just standing there taking him in until Dean turns the corner at the end of the block and disappears from sight. It still baffles Cas that a guy like Dean could ever like someone like him. It's like watching a god wander down the street, leather jacket hugged around him, puffs of cigarette smoke rising towards the sky every few seconds.

                Cas sighs and pulls himself away from the front window, licking his lips and still tasting Dean there. He quickly cleans up the kitchen and then wanders upstairs to put some day clothes on. He eyes the bed as he gets dressed, unable to stop the tiny surge of arousal he feels when he remembers what happened on that bed not even a day ago.

                He's not quite sure whether he's dreaming or awake.

                But all he knows is that, even though the feeling of Dean's mouth wrapped hot and tight around his dick was extraordinary, it wasn't even Castiel's favorite part. His favorite part was the feeling of Dean under his palms. Castiel has always been the type of person who is addicted to touch. And all he can think when he remembers touching Dean is that Dean's skin consists of a wide variety of textures.

                The skin of his back is smooth and soft, encasing hard muscles that ripple and roll with every movement of his body. His spine is like a mountain range, gentle knobs that dip into a canyon and protrude when Dean arches his back. With every pass of Castiel's palms over Dean's body, he felt the subtle bump of different scars, like the ones on Dean's knuckles from all the fights he's found himself in over the years. The skin of his cock was velvety and delicate, and it was amazing the way Cas could make Dean jerk and moan with every touch there. Castiel never realized it would be so much fun, to pleasure another person.

                But there was something else too. Dean's body was made up of textures, from soft skin to the rough scrape of stubble. But the most interesting texture Cas felt was the unnatural smoothness along the side of Dean's torso, and down to his thigh. His skin changed from silky soft to rubbery and smooth, like a sheet of plastic, and the only thing Castiel can think of that would feel like that is scars. It had been too dark in the room last night to see anything clearly, but Cas had felt them, what he assumes are scars along Dean's side.

                He remembers Charlie telling him a story once that she only heard from rumors, that Dean rescued Sam from a fire when they were young and he's covered from head to toe in burn scars because of it. Cas hadn't believed it, but now he's not so sure. However he's not planning on bringing it up, not planning on mentioning it to Dean. If Dean wants to tell him, that's fine. Dean will tell him in his own time. Castiel won't pry.

                Just like he won't mention the fact that he felt a strange scraping when Dean touched him with his arm, like there was something stuck to his skin. It's only when Castiel is making his bed after he gets changed that he realizes what it was. There's a single, bloody Band-Aid under the comforter on his bed, folded in half where it must have fallen off of Dean in the middle of the night sometime. Cas plucks it up and studies the Flintstones print on it for a moment in confusion. He knew he felt something scraping him on Dean's forearm last night. He just wonders what happened.

                He's alarmed when he tosses the Band-Aid in the trash and turns back to find a few small streaks of blood staining the white sheets. He briefly considers texting Dean to ask if he's okay, but Dean seemed fine while they were kissing and eating in the kitchen, so he decides to leave it alone. Cas chews on his lip, eyeing the blood on the bed for a minute and checking his own body for injuries just in case, before stripping his sheets off and throwing all his dirty laundry into the washer downstairs. He smiles a little when he throws Dean's boxers in with his own clothing, trying not to think on how domestic it all is.

                He splashes his face and brushes his teeth really quickly before stepping out of the house, hugging himself as snow continues to fall from the sky, wandering over to Missouri's next door. Jesse answers the door with a Cheerio stuck to his chin, and Castiel steps inside, chuckling at him as Jesse wanders back to the living room, sitting under the rabbit foot collection and watching Saturday morning cartoons while eating his cereal.

                Missouri is in the kitchen when Cas ducks under the doorframe and wanders inside, and he's hit with the smell of cinnamon and chai instantly. Missouri looks back and smiles at him when she sees him. "Anna is still sleeping if you want to wake her up."

                Cas gives her a brief hug in greeting before sitting at the kitchen table. "I'll let her sleep a little while longer. She's never been a morning person."

                Missouri hums in acknowledgement and pours some hot liquid into a cup for Cas, setting it in front of him. Castiel thanks her and yawns, giving the liquid a sniff before taking a sip. It warms him instantly, and the goose bumps that had formed on his skin while he was walking over here slowly prickle and disappear. Missouri pours herself her own cup of chai and then sits down across from Castiel at the little table, a smear of some flour on her smooth cheek.

                "I saw that boy leaving this morning," she says, sipping her tea and eyeing Castiel with a raised brow.

                Cas blushes a bit, but can't help the small smile that graces his lips, which he hides behind his cup, wrapping his hands around the hot ceramic to warm them. "Don't worry," he says, because he knows she will, "He has a good heart."

                Missouri smiles a little. "I know," she replies, "That's not hard to see. I'd like to have him over here for dinner sometime."

                Cas looks up at her in surprise. "Really?"

                Missouri rolls her eyes at him. "No boy is going to date you without a proper interrogation."

                Cas flushes a little. "We're not dating," he mumbles sheepishly, unable to stop smiling, "We just spend time together."

                Missouri fixes him with a look. "You're dating."

                Castiel bites his lip and stares down at his drink for a moment. Then he pulls in a tired breath, looking up at Missouri. "Is it wrong that I feel...a little protective of him?"

                She cocks her head a bit. "Why would that be wrong?"

                He shrugs a little, thumbing the rim of his cup. "I don't feel like I have the right to feel that way about him. He doesn't belong to me."

                Missouri's face softens a bit, and she reaches across the table, patting his hand. "You care about him," she replies, "It's not wrong to care."

                He sucks on his lip and nods slightly, studying his drink, trying to sort out the conflicted feelings in his head. Missouri stares at him for a long moment before leaning down a bit to capture his eyes. He looks up at her.

                "All that matters is that you're okay," she says to him, "Is everything okay?"

                Cas pauses, staring at her as he thinks over everything that happened last night, how good it felt to be there with Dean, how amazing it was to wake up and find Dean cooking in the kitchen, how intoxicating it is to kiss Dean. He hesitates, and then smiles a little. "Yeah," he replies, and leaves it at that. Missouri seems satisfied with that answer for the moment, and leans back to drink her chai again.

                It's true though - Castiel feels amazing. His heart is pumping just a bit harder today, and he can't get the phantom feeling of Dean's lips away from his own. If he closes his eyes, he can still smell Dean on his skin, a rich, spicy scent that could easily become an addiction.

                Dean is a very curious person, though. There seems to be so much more going on under the surface. Like he's hiding something.

                Dean had been _scared_ last night. Castiel knows that much for sure. He'd read Dean's body language, and he knows Dean had been scared. He doesn't know why Dean was afraid, but he just knows that he was. Cas wonders about it, wonders why Dean would be scared like that when all they were doing was kissing - at first anyway. It was like every time Cas tried to touch Dean the way Dean was touching him, Dean would whimper in _fear_ instead of pleasure.

                Cas can only draw one conclusion from that: something _happened_ to Dean. Castiel doesn't even pretend to know what, but he knows something happened. People don't get scared like that when they don't have a reason. They don't act so secretive without a reason. Castiel isn't going to pry, isn't going to push Dean to talk about whatever it is, because it's not his place, but _damn_ if he isn't curious. No one who acts the way Dean did last night is completely okay.

                Castiel has never been the type of person who likes to see anyone else hurting. It actually physically _pains_ him to see Dean in distress. And he knows he shouldn't, but he feels very protective of Dean. He wants to help him. He wants to heal him. He doesn't know _how_ , but he wants to. He wants to be there for Dean, maybe even save Dean, as dramatic as that may be. Why was Dean bleeding? Why was Dean so scared? Why is Dean angry?

                Castiel's mind whirls for the rest of the day after he leaves Missouri's house with Anna in tow. He stares at his stripped bed, and crawls on to bury his face in the pillow where Dean was laying, just to see if it still smells a little like him. Maybe that's a little creepy, but Cas is alone right now, and he doesn't care. He wants to wrap himself in Dean, be _consumed_ by him. He wants Dean to be okay, and it's stupid that he feels this way so strongly.

                Maybe Missouri can help Dean. She's a healer after all; she's not a nurse for nothing. Cas waits for the laundry to finish and then lays in the pile of hot clothes on his bed for the rest of the afternoon, just staring up at his origami mobile and thinking about those green eyes. There's so much, so _much_ , going on behind those eyes. So much Dean doesn't let the world see. But Cas can see it. And all he wants to do is wrap himself around Dean and shelter this beautifully broken boy from whatever it is that makes him bleed.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean has noticed something about his hands.

                When he used to burn himself, they would shake violently, like he was seizing. It was some sort of strange physical reaction, some sort of mental block that told him _this is going to hurt and you should be nervous._

                But now, his hands don't shake anymore.

                He's sitting on the roof of his house watching the sunrise as he smokes a cigarette. It's Monday morning and he has to leave for school soon, and all he can think about is how he can't wait to see Castiel during lunch, and in math class, even though he'd just seen Cas yesterday when they'd hung out at Hautley's Bend. Dean has been eating lunch with Cas and his friends every day now. Gabriel hasn't warmed up to him at all, but that doesn't really bother Dean. He doesn't expect Gabe to come around any time soon, not after everything Dean's done to Castiel in the past.

                Dean tears his eyes away from the rising sun and the way it's glittering off the snow like thousands of tiny shattered diamonds, and looks down at the glowing tip of his cigarette. He came out here specifically planning on burning himself, just to snuff out the scratching, nagging, festering thoughts in the back of his head that are trying to fill him with a sense of wrongness. He wants to be able to focus on Cas, and on being happy with Cas. He doesn't want to constantly be at war with his own head while he's trying to spend quality time with the one person who makes him feel like maybe soul mates do exist.

                He already has his sleeve rolled up and his cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, eyeing his mutilated arm and looking for a good place to etch in his next burn. It's like routine now. He gets up, eats breakfast, showers, and hurts himself. Then he goes inside and brushes his teeth and continues on with his day as if this is all completely normal.

                Anything to smother the bad thoughts. Anything to make the day more bearable.

                He takes one last quick drag on his smoke, tapping away the excess ashes, and then presses the hot tip of the cigarette to his skin, in a delicate, unmarred area right below the knob of his wrist. He grits his teeth and just sort of stares absently as the searing hot ember melts a hole in his skin, pain shooting up his tendons and zapping its way across his shoulder into the side of his neck. But he's used to this by now, and barely flinches, barely moves as another chunk of his body is burned away.

                It's all a little sick and twisted. And Dean knows that. But his whole life is sick and twisted, so who is he to argue? The only good thing, besides Sammy, is Castiel. Cas is like the light at the end of the tunnel.

                Dean waits until the cigarette is completely snuffed by his skin, and then hisses and pulls it away, flicking the butt aside and prodding gently at the new burn, the numb, dead skin not even feeling like a part of him anymore. It's like the little burn is a tiny compartment in which all his bad thoughts will lay for the day, residing there instead of in his head so he can think about other things. And he _does_ feel better now, relieved even, as endorphins rush through his veins.

                He sighs and rolls his sleeve back down, glancing up at the sunrise again. His attention is captured by the sound of the neighbor lady's seventeen little yapping dogs barking and yipping excitedly. Dean turns his eyes in the direction of her house, and nearly shits himself when he sees the squash lady standing at the window, staring out at him through the parted curtains. She's holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a tiny rat dog in the other, just watching Dean with a strange look in her eyes.

                Dean would be creeped out by the ghost lady staring at him if he wasn't so instantly overcome with embarrassment and worry. Did she just see him burn himself? Was she watching the whole time? _Fuck_ , Dean is getting careless. He needs to pay more attention to his surroundings. The last thing he needs is for rotten-squash lady to come over and inform John of Dean's private activities on this rooftop. Dean isn't even sure John knows that he smokes, let alone that he puts out cigarettes on his bare skin.

                Dean grinds his teeth a little, staring at the lady for a long moment before tearing his eyes away and shoving himself to his feet. He doesn't look at her again as he trudges across the roof, shaking away the ache in his arm from the fresh burn, and climbs down onto the trash can pushed up against the house.

                Dean is floating. That's the only way he can describe how he feels. He's floating from one situation to the next, like he's strapped to a whale, just sailing along in the deep. His mind is a mess of happiness and wrongness. Everything about Castiel makes him feel overwhelmingly euphoric. It hasn't been very long, but already Dean has decided that Cas is the best thing that's ever happened to him.

                But then there's Alastair, and John, and The Accident, and Dean's grades, and cigarette burns, and an entire raging shit storm of darkness swirling and thundering in the back of Dean's head, always there, always persistent, never relenting.

                And all of these mixed feelings have led Dean to an uncomfortable conclusion - he has no _idea_ how he feels. If someone were to ask him what he's feeling, he wouldn't be able to define it. At the forefront of his mind, he has Cas, and he has the urge to kiss Cas, and hold Cas, and be with Cas as often as he can. Then there's another layer of thought behind that - just the usual stuff, like taking care of Sammy, and making sure John doesn't break anything. And then there are the layers of thought that overlap and weave together like waves in the ocean, dark and horrible and just generally _emo_ thoughts.

                So far, the only things that have successfully distracted him from himself are burning and Castiel.

                Everything is the same, yet so remarkably different. Everything is calm and still, and yet spiraling completely out of control. And Dean has no idea where his mind is. He's chasing himself, and trying not to implode, while trying not to _explode_ , all at the same time.

                _God_ , he could really use a fucking drink.

                He pushes his way into his house and wanders back to his bedroom to grab his backpack. Sam is just finishing up his toast in the kitchen when Dean walks in, and they leave together. Dean watches Sam walk away down the street until he's out of sight, just like every morning, and then crosses over into the woods. He's already a little late, so he doesn't have time to take the long route and meet up with Cas to walk with him this morning.

                He takes one last glance back at squash lady's house before slipping into the trees and trudging to school. He's brooding, and that's stupid, because he just burned himself, and he shouldn't be feeling so low. Squash lady kind of killed his endorphin rush. He hugs his leather jacket around himself tighter, his biker boots crunching over frozen twigs and dirt, snow sparkling in little patches here and there in the trees.

                He's sort of lost in his own head by the time he makes it to the school and starts walking across the parking lot towards the back entrance. He smells tendrils of cigarette smoke floating through the ice cold air from The Docks, but he barely registers it. He's a stranger now, to The Docks, and to his friends.

                Which is why he's taken aback when he hears Crowley's voice calling his name. At first, he doesn't acknowledge it, too lost in thought, but then the Brit calls his name again, and Dean glances over at The Docks. It's just Gordon, Zach, and Crowley there this morning, to Dean's relief. He's not sure he could have handled Alastair's knowing little sneers and winks today; not when he's feeling so confused and low.

                Crowley raises one hand and waves him over. Dean narrows his eyes at him, and Crowley's eye roll is visible even from this distance. He waves Dean over again, insistently, and Dean stands there debating for a moment whether or not he wants to comply. He sighs. _What the hell, right_? Alastair isn't there right now, and honestly, Dean still likes Crowley. He still considers Crowley his friend, even if Gordon and Zach are a couple of douchebags.

                Biting the inside of his cheek a little bit angrily, he grips the straps of his backpack tighter and turns on his heel, wandering over to The Docks hesitantly, waiting for one of them to pick a fight. Gordon still has a pretty decent bruise around his eye from where Dean punched him on Friday after they'd beaten up Cas. Dean almost smiles when he sees it - it serves them right. No one touches Cas, not anymore.

                Both Gordon and Zachariah give Dean ugly glares, and sure enough, the very first thing that happens when he reaches them is Gordon spitting at his feet. Dean looks down at the wad of snot and saliva that landed an inch or so from his shoes, and then glares at Gordon.

                "Dean Winchester, what a lovely surprise it is to see you here," Crowley greets with a smile. The smile is fake and sharp, but not at the expense of Dean. Crowley just never smiles genuinely. He always looks like he's plotting the next world war behind his signature cockiness and smirks. Dean fixes his eyes on him.

                "What do you want Crowley?" he asks, ignoring the way Zach and Gordon are grumbling and throwing insults under their breath. Dean honestly doesn't give a rat's ass that they hate him now. He's always hated them.

                Before Crowley has a chance to answer him, Gordon flicks his cigarette at Dean's leg, and Dean has to jump in order to avoid getting burned. He glares at Gordon, glares at Zach, glares at Crowley, and then just rolls his eyes, turning and beginning to walk away. "Screw this," he growls, shaking his head. He doesn't have time for these dickbags anymore.

                "Dean, wait!" he hears Crowley call after him, but he keeps walking, ignoring his friend. He's not in the fucking mood to deal with any of them this morning. Surprisingly, though, Dean hears shuffling behind himself, and just as he reaches the school, Crowley appears by his side where he'd run to catch up with him. Dean glances over at the Brit and Crowley eyes his face, looking as apologetic as Crowley can get.

                Then, without a word, he pulls out his flask and untwists the cap, handing it to Dean. Dean glances at him, and then accepts the drink, taking a swig and gritting his teeth at the burn of the alcohol.

                "Thanks," he says, his voice a low growl as he hands the flask back to Crowley. Crowley studies his face.

                "You're on edge," he comments as he and Dean step into the school.

                "I'm fine," Dean replies, not wanting to get into this, especially not with Crowley.

                "Don't lie to a liar Dean," Crowley says, taking a swig of his own from his flask before tucking it back in the inside of his pea coat. They end up stopping right inside the school and just leaning up against the wall of the hallway, watching students file by, all of them mostly half-asleep in the early Monday morning.

                Dean says nothing in response, and they just stand there for a few minutes in silence before Crowley clears his throat. "So it's safe to assume that you're no longer part of our little coterie?"

                Dean tucks his hands into his pockets, keeping his eyes out on the crowd milling through the hallway, unconsciously hoping that he'll spot Castiel. He shrugs a little. "I haven't been part of your little _coterie_ since November," he points out.

                Crowley purses his lips and nods a bit, pondering that. "I don't like it," he says, "I'd had hopes of your return, but this is clearly not going to get any better. Not while you continue gallivanting about with your boy Novak."

                Dean shoots Crowley a dirty look, but doesn't afford that a response. He's clearly not in a talkative mood this morning, but it feels nice to be talking to Crowley. He studies his friend for a moment. "Did you really help Cas on Friday? He told me you were nice to him after he took a beating."

                Crowley colors a little, glancing at Dean, and then rolling his eyes. "Don't think too much on it. I just happened to be in a decent mood after a good wank in the Dungeon lavatory."

                Dean wrinkles his nose, snorting a little laugh. "You're disgusting."

                Crowley grins a bit and chuckles too, shifting his feet. "Yes, well, my priorities are in line at least."

                Dean just shakes his head and laughs again, leaning back further against the wall and looking down the hallway again at all the students at their lockers. He's zoning out watching a group of giggling girls towards the end of the hall when Crowley suddenly shifts next to him, sticking his foot out to trip a smaller student, sending the boy toppling to the floor, his books flying out of his hands and skidding across the linoleum.

                Dean jumps a little as Crowley trips the kid, looking down at the boy as he sprawls there on all fours. Dean recognizes him as Barry Cook, one of the usual punching bags of their group. Normally, Dean would just laugh and play along, and he almost _does_ , just out of habit or instinct.

                But then he freezes up as Crowley chuckles next to him. He freezes up, because all he sees when he looks at Barry recovering there on the floor is Castiel in his place. He sees his memories of the way they used to treat Cas so badly. And he recalls the conversation he and Castiel had in Cas's bed on Friday night. Dean remembers the way Castiel expressed that he feels so worthless, so _useless_ , because of the way he's been beaten down by bullies and shitheads _just like Dean_ all his life.

                How is Barry any different? Dean stares down at the kid, and wonders if Barry feels that way too - _worthless_ , because of the way he's treated by Dean's friends here at school. Dean hasn't picked on this kid in months, hasn't really picked on _anyone_ in months. But there was a time when he did. There was a time when he laughed while Zach broke Barry Cook's glasses. There was a time when Dean was the one shoving Barry down in the hallway and stealing his notebooks. There was a time when Dean _did_ all that, and now the guilt is eating him alive.

                He swallows hard, and without even thinking, Dean pushes himself away from where he's leaning against the wall, stooping down and starting to gather up Barry's books from where they scattered all over the floor, ignoring the annoyed look he's receiving from Crowley and the wide-eyed gawk he's getting from Barry. Dean plucks up Barry's thick-rimmed black glasses from the floor and holds them out to the kid. Barry doesn't move to take them, just staring at Dean like some skittish animal waiting for Dean to strike.

                And Dean doesn't blame him. He's never been nice to Barry. He's never helped him, or even really spoken to him. So why should Barry trust him now? Why should Barry think that Dean is actually trying to help him?

                Dean swallows a little, trying to choke back the guilt he feels rising steadily in his throat the more he takes in the look in Barry's eyes, just a little freshman kid with a wounded soul that Dean never once before took the time to consider. Dean glances down and finishes gathering up the rest of Barry's books, and discovers a clear plastic folder with a single large photograph tucked into it. Dean studies the picture - it's just a group of animals, mostly dogs, a few cats, one large parrot, and a chameleon.

                "Are these your pets?" he asks Barry, because he doesn't really know what else to say. Barry is flustered as he glances between the photograph, and Dean's face. This time when Dean holds out his books, Barry takes them shakily, not meeting Dean's eyes, looking instead down at the picture.

                "No," he replies in a small voice, clearing his throat a little, "They're animals at the local shelter. I-I wanna be a vet."

                Dean smiles a little, and even though it's a genuine smile, and even though he actually thinks that's pretty awesome, that Barry Cook wants to be a veterinarian, Barry probably interprets the smile as mocking. "That's cool," he says, holding out Barry's glasses again for the kid to take, "I love animals. Maybe I'll come visit sometime."

                Barry eyes him skeptically, hugging his books to his chest as he still kneels there on the floor, and then swallows before giving Dean an abrupt and tiny smile that disappears almost as soon as it shows. Then, Barry snatches his glasses away from Dean and scrambles to his feet, tripping down the hall and away from Dean and Crowley as fast as he can, fumbling to put his glasses back on his face as he does. Dean watches after him for a moment, and Barry was too flustered to even remember to thank Dean. But it's not like Dean deserves a thank you after everything he's done, when not three months ago, Dean was the one shoving Barry down and beating him up.

                "My God," Crowley huffs, drawing Dean's attention again, "What did Novak do to weasel his way so deeply under your skin?"

                Dean blushes a little, pushing himself up from the floor and dusting off his hands. He fights the urge to conform, to go along with his friends like he's been doing all his life. He's pretty fucked in that department anyway.

                "I don't know, it's just..." he begins, chewing his lip for a moment, "It's immature man, the way we act. Aren't you even a little bit embarrassed?"

                Crowley eyes him up and down, and then snorts with a little shrug. Dean roll his eyes, shaking his head. "Yeah, I don't even know why I bother asking you. You're not capable of embarrassment," he says to Crowley.

                Crowley shrugs again. "It's just simpler not to give a flying fuck."

                Dean huffs a little breath, leaning back against the wall next to his friend again. "We should try something," he says.

                Crowley raises one eyebrow, as if to say _go on_.

                Dean watches different groups of students wander by in the hallway. "We should waste energy being good to people instead of beating the shit out of everyone we meet, you know? Like a redemption thing."

                Crowley narrows his eyes at Dean, staring at him like he's sprouted a second head for a very long moment. Then, he smacks his lips like he's tasting something bad and scratches at his chest. "You're infecting me with all your righteousness, Winchester," he grumbles, "Do what you want. I've got more important matters to attend to than coddling all the little squirrels of this school."

                Dean snorts and shakes his head. "You're impossible."

                Crowley smirks. "It's been said," he replies, just as the five-minute-warning bell rings. Dean shifts away from the wall to leave, and he and Crowley nod to each other after a second, just a subtle little thing like they always do before parting ways. Dean turns and starts heading down the hall towards his first class, shifting his backpack more snuggly on his shoulder.

                "Dean," Crowley calls out from behind him, and Dean turns.

                Crowley eyes him for a moment, and then sighs. "I'm glad we're still friends," the Brit admits in a little grumble, an uncharacteristically sappy moment for the cocky asshole.

                Dean snorts a little. "Shut up Crowley," he replies, earning him a smile and a middle finger from his friend before they turn and head off in opposite directions to their first classes.

 

*       *        *

 

                It's the middle of the afternoon when Castiel feels someone grab his arm as he's walking down the hallway in The Dungeon. He gasps in surprise as strong hands shove him into the bathroom, barely pausing before closing the door and backing him up against it.

                His heart nearly explodes when he looks up to see Dean only inches from his face, grinning like the Cheshire cat, big green eyes sparkling. Immediately Cas relaxes, his body at first instinctually tensing in anticipation of a fight. He sags back into the door, blowing out a breath.

                "You scared me," he chuckles, looking at Dean.

                Dean smiles wider. "Sorry," he says softly, eyes darting all over Cas's face for a moment before he leans in and presses their lips together. Both of them inhale a slow gasp at the same time as they kiss, almost like a sigh of relief. One of Dean's hands comes up and winds around the back of Cas's head, while his other hand reaches behind Cas and locks the bathroom door so no one will interrupt them.

                Castiel smiles a little, his heart pulsing. This is a very good way to be surprised in the middle of the day at school. It's all Cas really wants to do - kiss Dean. He pushes forward a bit into the kiss, pressing their mouths tighter together, and Dean chuckles against his lips, licking his way inside.

                They stand there kissing for an immeasurable amount of time. _Every_ time they kiss is immeasurable, because it feels like it lasts for thousands of years, and mere moments all at once. It's simultaneously endless and too quick. Cas winds his hands around to Dean's back and slides his palms up between Dean's prominent shoulder blades, enjoying the feeling of his muscles rolling as Dean leans in closer, pressing their bodies together. He's careful to keep their groins from touching together. The last thing they need is to get hard making out in this bathroom.

                Dean is the first to pull away, minutes later, both of them breathing hard, their foreheads resting together for a second before Castiel chuckles just a bit. "I think we should do this more often," he says, and Dean laughs, finally pulling away a little.

                "I'm okay with that," he replies, eyeing Cas for another drawn out moment before taking a few steps back. He shifts  a little for a second. "I gotta take a piss."

                Castiel raises one eyebrow. "Well, conveniently, we're in a bathroom."

                Dean snorts and rolls his eyes, walking around the corner of the stalls to the urinals. Cas hears him undo his zipper. "Are you free tonight?" Dean asks as he urinates.

                "I have work, but I'm available after seven. Missouri would like to have you over for dinner," Cas replies, leaning back against the locked door and touching his fingers to his tingling lips briefly.

                "Why?" Dean asks, finishing and flushing before zipping his pants back up and wandering over to the sinks to wash his hands.

                "She's taken a liking to you," Castiel says, watching Dean as he snatches a paper towel and dries his hands, absently eyeing the hole in the wall that he punched the first time he and Castiel were in this bathroom alone together. Cas bites the inside of his cheek at the memory.

                Dean tosses his used paper towel in the trash and saunters over to the hole in the wall, flicking at it with the tips of his fingers. "I doubt Missouri actually likes me," he says, huffing a little humorless laugh, "She's just protective of you."

                Castiel cocks his head to the side, studying Dean. "You know, it _is_ possible that people like you."

                Dean raises an eyebrow, looking a little doubtful, but he says nothing more, chuckling a bit and wandering back over to Castiel, placing one hand on the door beside his head and leaning in to give him a brief kiss. "So, Missouri's?" he asks, chewing his lip in thought, "I'll be there if you'll be there."

                Castiel smiles, resisting the urge to reach up and run his fingers along Dean's sharp jaw. "I'll be there," he promises.

                Dean stands there for a moment longer, but before he can say anything more, the bell rings, signaling the beginning of the next class. Castiel wants to mention the blood he found on the sheets in his bed on Saturday morning, the Band-Aid buried in the blankets, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to make Dean uncomfortable. It never seems like the right time, or an appropriate time, to bring up something like that. So he just allows Dean to kiss him one more time in farewell, and then watches as the green eyed boy slips out of the bathroom.              

                Castiel stands there for a moment, his body tingling happily and worriedly, and he glances at the hole in the wall, wondering. It's all he really can do - wonder.


	21. The Book Of Houses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another freakishly long chapter for you guys <3 Hope it satisfies :)

                Dean stands in the woods behind his yard for nearly a half an hour that afternoon on his way home from school, eyeing the squash-lady's house next door. He lets his green eyes scan over every silver-tinted window in the cold winter light, looking for her on the other side in all her lonely, specter-like glory. She makes him a little nervous, and he doesn't know why. Well, actually, he _does_ know why - at least partially. She saw him this morning, burning himself on his roof. At least, he thinks she did. She was staring at him. That just makes him uncomfortable. It's like someone seeing you naked. Vulnerable.

                He chews on his thumbnail, leaning against a tree and staring at her windows, eyes darting from one to the next, looking for any signs of movement. He's not sure he's ever seen her leave her house. He has no idea what the woman does. She's old enough to where she could be retired, and sometimes Dean sees Andy from the supermarket delivering groceries to her house, but so far, it doesn't seem like she has any family at all. Just her collection of various rat dogs and her sad gathering of fairy statues perched around her plot of rotten gourds. Dean doesn't even know her name.

                He shouldn't feel uneasy around this woman. She's just an old lady living in an end-of-the-earth little East coast town, all alone, withering away just like everything around her. She just stands at the windows and watches people, but to be honest, if Dean were old and retired and had no friends, that's all he would do too. Well, that, and drink a fuck ton of whiskey.

                He sighs, pushing himself away from the tree he's been leaning on for half an hour, stubbing out his cigarette on the bark and flicking the butt aside. All he's seen in the squash-lady's windows so far have been the tiny heads of several different breeds of dogs poking up every few minutes, just running rampant in there, yipping and leaping all over the furniture. No sign of the old woman.

                He rolls his shoulders a little, chewing on his lip and trudging out of the woods, wondering why the hell he's being so paranoid. What's a harmless old lady going to do?

                He sighs as he pushes his way into his house, which is dark and silent. "Sammy, you home?" he calls out, getting a little grunt from down the hall in reply. Dean drops his backpack in his room and then wanders into Sam's room like he does every day. Sam is on the floor with a bunch of different papers and markers, spread out in neat little piles.

                "Whatcha doing?" Dean asks, flopping back on Sam's bed as usual, mussing up Sam's floppy hair on the way. Sam grumbles at him and smoothes his hair back down.

                "Trying to make a poster board," he replies, scooting some pieces of cardboard together and taping them.

                "Why don't we just go out and buy one?" Dean asks, "Is this for that family tree project thing?"

                "We can't afford it Dean, dad spent the rest of this month's money at the Roadhouse last week," Sam replies, and Dean can practically hear the eye roll in his tone, "I just have to display my lineage somehow, and I figured a poster would be easiest."

                Dean hums in acknowledgment, watching as Sam takes several pieces of printer paper and glues them to the cardboard, effectively creating a makeshift poster board. Dean has to admit, the kid is clever. "Have you gotten time to do any more research for the project yet?" Dean asks.

                Sam shrugs. "A little bit, but not really. I'm probably gonna go up in the attic in the next couple of days and look through those albums and boxes you told me about."

                Dean nods a little, laying his head back on Sam's pillow and staring up at the little plastic stars and planets on Sam's ceiling, all just a dull white since it's still light outside. He glances at the clock on Sam's nightstand. He's supposed to be over at Missouri's at seven-thirty, so he has a few hours to kill.

                "You wanna go to Hautley's Bend?" he asks Sam, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up, leaning over Sam to look down at the makeshift poster board while Sam draws little boxes and circles, presumably organizing the project.

                "Sure," Sam replies, popping the cap back on his marker, setting it aside before looking back at Dean, "Am I spending the night at Bobby's again?"

                Dean blushes a little. "Is that okay? I can cancel my plans with Cas if you want. I just don't want you being here alone."

                Sam snorts. "No, it's fine, I like Bobby's better anyway," he replies, "How are things going with you and Castiel?"

                Dean rolls his eyes. "None of your nosy little business, that's how," he grunts, shoving Sam's head teasingly. Sam just whines.

                "You have to tell me sometime!" he complains, "I tell you about me and Jess!"

                Dean pops his eyebrows. "I'll tell you when there's more to say," he says, standing up from the bed and tossing Sam his jacket. The truth is, Dean could go on for hours about Cas, but he doesn't want to talk Sam's ear off about the whole thing. And the things he and Cas share...they're private. Sure, Dean doesn't really keep secrets from Sam for the most part, but it's almost like the moments Dean spends with Cas are completely separate from everything else. Like a whole other little world that Dean can step into and forget about life for a while. It's like a safe place that Dean doesn't want to be ruined. He won't talk about it, as much as he wants to, because talking about it makes it too _real_ , and being with Cas is like a dream that he doesn't want to taint.

                Dean grabs a fresh pack of cigarettes from his room and meets Sammy in the front hall so they can head out to the park.

                "Oh, that neighbor lady left something on our porch today. I found it there after school," Sam says, nodding towards the kitchen counter. Dean's stomach drops a little, and he glances into the kitchen, wandering over to the counter where there's a plate with a loaf of some sort on it, covered in plastic wrap, a note taped to the side. Dean lifts the note a little, squinting at it.

**_A loaf of zucchini bread to carry you through._ **

That's it. That's all the note says.

                "At least, I _think_ it was the neighbor lady," Sam adds from behind him, zipping up his jacket, "She has all those nasty squash vines in her yard. I don't really know what the note means, but whatever."

                Dean grits his teeth, staring at the delicate handwriting. He has no doubt in his mind that it was the squash lady who left this here. It's a nice gesture, but it still makes Dean uneasy. Because he knows exactly what that note means. Why the lady thinks that a loaf of _zucchini bread_ will help him deal with his mental issues and his burning problem is beyond Dean. But it confirms that she saw him burn himself this morning, and that makes Dean's mouth run dry.

                He releases the little slip of paper and clears his throat. "Weird," he says, trying to keep his face even as he turns back around and he and Sammy head out the front door into the cold, "What the hell is zucchini bread anyway?"

                "It's good actually," Sam says, his little feet crunching across the frozen lawn and the fresh snow, "Sarah's mom gave me some once. It's really healthy."

                Dean rolls his eyes, glancing briefly at the squash lady's house as they pass it. "You _would_ like that you freaking hippie," he scoffs, giving Sam another little shove. Sam trips over his feet and then tries to shove Dean back, but Dean swiftly dodges him, laughing and swatting at Sam's unusually large hands. He's a small kid, and really skinny, but the size of his hands and feet suggest that he's probably going to be a freaking _mammoth_ when he's older. Dean's just waiting for that growth spurt to hit. For now, Sam is just a little twelve-year-old pipsqueak.

                They shove each other around for the entire rest of the walk to Hautley's Bend, and then Dean challenges Sam to run up the slide as many times as possible without slipping on the snow slowly melting down the metal. Dean does it only once, and even though his boots have good traction, he still slips and ends up face-planting on the ground. Sam laughs at him and nudges him with his foot, so Dean grabs his ankle and picks him up by it, swinging Sam upside down and throwing him into a snow bank.

                They roughhouse for a good hour like that, until they're both panting hard and grinning stupidly, their breath escaping in little clouds of fog in the icy air. They plop down on the swings, wincing at the hair-raising creak and groan of the hinges, and Dean fishes his cigarettes out, lighting one up.

                "Can I try some?" Sam asks, gripping the chain of the swing and eyeing Dean's cigarette as Dean takes a long drag, soothing his throat with the cool burn of the smooth menthol and smoke. Dean looks over at his brother with a chuckle ready on his lips, before he realizes that Sam is serious.

                "Hell no!" Dean snaps, "I don't want you ever smoking."

                Sam's shoulders slump. "Well then why do you do it?"

                Dean rolls his eyes. "What is this, an intervention?" he snaps.

                Sam shakes his head. "No Dean, it's just...why am I not allowed to do it, but you do it every day?"

                Dean takes another drag and blows the smoke the other way. "Because I'm the oldest and I get to do whatever I want."

                Sam huffs. "That's not fair!" he grumbles, "You're being a hypocrite."

                Dean shrugs, popping his eyebrows. "Maybe," he says, "But as long as I'm around, you're not touching a cigarette."

                Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head, rocking his feet to make his swing move a bit since his legs aren't long enough to reach the ground. They sit there in silence for a minute, just staring down the street, ignoring the fact that their cheeks are pink with the cold and their lips are chapped. Somewhere deep in the woods, a dog is barking, and the sound echoes out of the creaking, frozen trees like a fog horn, reverberating off the sky. Dean glances back as he takes another drag, wondering why there's a dog out there. Maybe it belongs to that old man who lives out near Ghost Town, he thinks with a shiver.

                "Dean?" Sam asks, breaking the oppressive silence. Dean glances over at him.

                "What?"

                Sam chews on his lip, brushing a lock of his hair out of his face. He really needs a haircut soon. "Is this a good time ask you about mom?"

                Dean eyebrows crunch a little in confusion as he ignores the little lump that automatically forms in his throat from any mention of Mary. "What do you mean?"

                Sam looks over at him, eyeing him carefully. "You said you would eventually tell me a little about mom," he says, "For my project."

                Dean purses his lips, looking off to the side for a moment before he remembers that, yes, he did promise Sam that he would tell him more about their mother. _Damn_ , Dean really hates talking about her. It just hurts. And it's one of those feeling of hurt that you can't drown in alcohol or scorch away with cigarette burns completely, no matter how hard you try. "Well, uh," Dean says, licking his lips, "Yeah I guess I could. What do you need to know?"

                Sam's face lights up. "Really?" he says, "Are you sure?"

                Dean pops his eyebrows, taking another drag on his smoke. "Just as long as you make me a promise," he says, and Sam nods, "After today, we never talk about her again."

                Sam's eyes dim a little, but he doesn't hesitate to agree to that promise. Anything to get a few stories out of Dean. They look at each other for a second, and then Dean sighs.

                "Alright then, um...ask me questions or something," he says, waving his hand for Sam to say something, "There's too much to tell. I need something to go off of."

                Sam chews on the inside of his cheek as he thinks. "My teacher Mrs. Chandler wants us to give detailed memories of those family members we've had encounters with, kind of like a primary source document from the past. But I don't really remember anything about mom so I figured I'd use your memories."

                Dean swallows, tasting menthol on his tongue. "Well what kind of memories? I was only seven dude."

                Sam huffs a little breath, rubbing his cold hands together. "I know," he says, as Dean fishes in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a pair of gloves, tossing them to his brother. Sam accepts them with a nod, pulling them on. "I guess, what's your best memory of mom?"

                Dean pauses, looking off down the street, and then blowing all the breath out of his lungs. "I don't really know," he says, running a hand through his hair and finishing up his cigarette, flicking it to the side, "I don't really have a _best_ memory. Just a bunch of different memories all squished together."

                Sam shrugs. "Well just give me like a few of them," he says, "I just have to add some to mom's little biography in the project."

                Dean nods a little, picking at his nails on one hand while he thinks. There are about a dozen memories he could choose from right off the top of his head, but he's not sure how many of them he wants to share with Sam just yet. Some of them aren't even something he can _tell_ , like the memory of that glint in his mom's eye whenever she would play The Beatles on her old turntable in the living room. Or the way her hair looked like melted honey when the sun would hit it through the window while she was cooking pie in the kitchen. Stupid things like that, right down to the frayed bit of leather on her left sandal that she refused to replace because they were the most comfortable shoes she had ever owned. Dean tried them on once, but he never understood why she thought they were so comfortable when they were like clown shoes on Dean's tiny little feet.

                He remembers bad stuff too, but all the bad stuff seems like good stuff once someone is dead. He remembers his mother fighting with grandpa Samuel over the phone, and the way she cursed in front of Dean once when she accidentally pricked her finger with a needle while sewing a button back of one of John's flannels. Dean remembers a huge fight Mary and John had once, where John moved out for a few days, and the beautiful grace with which Mary handled her anger, silent whispers into the phone in the corner, a hand poised on the hip, a hard sigh, always trying to shelter Dean from the parental fights.

                He remembers all that he can, the good and the bad, but sometimes the memories are just _feelings_ , like a sense of warmth that presides over a certain period of time in his life, like the sun was shining just a bit brighter and the food tasted just a little better and alcohol didn't even exist.

                He sighs a little, running his hand over his face, feeling the rough scrape of stubble that he hasn't shaved in two days. He should really do that before he goes to Castiel's tonight.

                "Mom used to do this thing where she would have me hold her wedding ring while she cooked," he finally says, glancing at Sam to find his little brother staring at him with big round eyes, listening intently, drinking it all in, "She would make me promise not to lose it, so I would always just squeeze my hand around it the whole time she cooked, and then I'd have this circle impression in my palm by the time we ate."

                Sam nods a little, looking off to the side. He doesn't ask for any more stories, but Dean knows he wants some more. So he blows out all the breath in his lungs again and leans against the chain of the swing.

                "And there was this one time when I was like four or five, where me, mom, and dad took a trip to Canada for a week because there was a ton of snow, and I'd never seen that much snow before," Dean continues, smiling a little, "And mom built a snowman around my body so that just my face was sticking out, just to see if I could break out of the snow all by myself. And when I did, she and dad bought me an entire pie. And I ate the whole thing."

                Sam chuckles a little. "That doesn't really surprise me," he says, "I never knew you went to Canada."

                Dean glances over at him and shrugs. "Yeah, mom and dad used to have college friends up there I think. We stayed with them, but I don't really remember them. And I don't think dad keeps in touch with them anymore."

                Sam pops his eyebrows a little. "I don't really think dad has _any_ friends to be honest."

                Dean huffs a little breath, looking down at the ground and scuffing his boot in the snow and dirt. They're silent for a couple of minutes, and Dean is tempted to smoke again, but decides against it. He feels a little guilty, doing that in front of Sam.

                "Can we go home now?" Sam asks, "I'm freezing."

                Dean looks over at him, and then snorts. "Wuss," he says, standing up from the swing. Sam shoves him as he stands too, and they start walking back towards their house.

                "Can you tell me just a few more stories?" Sam asks as they walk, their bodies bumping together every few seconds as they walk too close together like they're huddling for warmth.

                Dean nods a little, licking his lips. "Just a few more," he says, slinging his arm around Sammy's shoulders and messing up his hair. Sam doesn't even bother fixing it, just walks and listens as Dean tells him any little memory he can put into words that pops up about the first seven years of his life before everything went to shit.

                When they get home, Dean immediately drags Sam into the bathroom, and grabs a pair of scissors from Sam's desk, forcing him to sit there on the toilet while Dean gives him the most even haircut he can manage. He's gotten good at cutting Sam's hair over the years, but it always needs a day or two afterwards to grow out just a bit so Sam doesn't look as goofy. But the kid never complains.

                "Did mom ever do anything like this for me?" Sam asks, gesturing to the scissors Dean is using to chop at his hair.

                Dean snorts. "You were bald until you were like two man," he says, "You never had any hair for her to get a chance to cut."

                Sam lowers his eyes, biting his lip and nodding a little in understanding until Dean flicks him for moving his head while Dean tries to trim his shaggy bangs. Dean studies Sam's face for a moment, and his stomach twists a little in guilt. He feels bad that Sam never had what Dean had. He never had a mother. Sure, he got a little less than a year with Mary before she died, but it's not like Sam can remember any of it. Dean has good memories to live with at least. All of Sam's memories involve Jack Daniels and playing "hide and seek" with Dean - and mostly "hide and seek" was Dean pretending to play while really just trying to hide Sam from John when their father was in a _mood_.

                He sighs a little, brushing a tuft of hair off Sam's shoulder. "Mom used to do this one thing with you," he says, and Sam looks up at him, his eyes a little watery, although Dean chooses to ignore that, because he hates all that touchy-feely crap, "She did it with me too, but I just remember every night, she'd have me come into your nursery and say goodnight to you, and then she'd tell you that angels were watching over you. Then she'd tuck me in, and say the same thing, and sing _Hey Jude_ to us. It was like this little tradition or something."

                Sam smiles a little, chewing his lip. "Is that why you always turn _Hey Jude_ off when it comes on the radio?" he asks, and Dean flushes a little, hesitating before clearing his throat and turning Sam's head to the side so he can snip a few stray hairs in the back.

                He chooses to ignore Sam's question. "You think you have enough material for your biography?" he asks, and Sam picks at his fingernails.

                "I think so," Sam nods, just as Dean is clipping the last few hairs. He brushes off Sam's shirt, eyeing him, and then grins.

                "Looking sharp there stud, check yourself out," Dean says, and Sam stands, stepping in front of the mirror as Dean sweeps up his hair all over the floor with a clump of wet tissues.

                "It's good, thanks Dean," Sam says, running his fingers through his neater hair. Dean winces when he sees a small section at the top that he cut too short, making it not match the rest, but he just reaches out and messes Sam's hair up a bit so the mistake is not that visible.

                Sam huffs, and they leave the bathroom, wandering to Sam's room so he can grab a few things to bring to Bobby's tonight. Dean pops back into the bathroom and grabs an Ace bandage from their first aid kit, tucking it into his pocket to bring over to Castiel's. He doesn't want to risk having his Band-Aids fall off again in Cas's bed, or having his burns bleed on Cas's sheets, so he figures if he wraps his arm in the bandage, it'll be fine. It has to be, right? Dean can't handle Cas finding out about these marks. Dean is already covered in bruises from John and scars from The Accident. How much more damage does he need to hide from Castiel?

                It doesn't take Sam long to quickly scribble down some notes about Mary Winchester, and then they're heading out the door. 

                When they leave the house, Dean curses and drags Sam behind some dead, scraggly bushes as John pulls up in the Impala in front of the house, turning into the garage and parking a little uneven. Dean doesn't doubt that John is at least a little tipsy, but the night is still young and the sun is just dipping below the horizon, so the drinking will probably continue into the wee hours of the morning.

                They wait until the garage closes, and then they sneak away down the street. Dean spots the squash lady through her front window, sitting at her kitchen table eating alone, ferrying little bites of what looks like meatloaf to the little dogs yipping and barking around her feet. He watches her for just a few seconds, before Sam grabs his sleeve and pulls him along.

                After dropping Sam off at the Singer's, and giving Ellen a kiss on the cheek, and Jo a flick to the nose, and requests that they say hi to Bobby for him when he gets home, Dean turns and starts his walk towards Castiel's. Halfway there, he rolls up his sleeve and winds the Ace bandage around his burned arm, securing it tightly over the wounds, flexing his hand a few times to make sure the little metal clips holding the tan bandage in place won't pop off. Then, with a sigh, he spends the rest of his walk over to Missouri's trying to come up with a story for why he had a bandage on his arm. Anything to hide the truth. No one wants to hear that.

 

*       *       *

                When Castiel hears the knock on Missouri's front door from where he's setting the table in the kitchen, his heart stops beating and then starts up again twice as fast. It's silly that he reacts this way every time there's any sort of situation involving Dean, but he can't help it. This boy is flipping his world upside down and inside out and changing the way he sees everything. Cas glances at Missouri where she's busy whipping dinner up at the stove, and she raises an eyebrow at him.

                "Well go on, let the boy in," she says, waving him away, and Cas blushes a bit, before smiling and ducking out of the kitchen. Anna is already at the door, pulling it open, and Dean is standing there on the other side with his hands tucked tightly in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking positively radiant as always, if a bit shy, as Castiel has noticed Dean tends to get when he's meeting new people.

                Anna immediately starts battering Dean with questions, about his hair, and his clothes, and what classes he's taking, and Dean blinks at her as she barely takes a breath between each question, not even giving him a chance to answer. Castiel rolls his eyes and picks her up from behind under her armpits, swinging her around and giving her a push back towards the living room where she's trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle of a hornet's nest with Jesse. She giggles and wanders back in there, and Castiel turns back to Dean, taking a moment to just drink him all in.

                Dean's cheeks are flushed a little pink from the cold, making his freckles stand out even more, and when he looks at Cas, his emerald eyes light up with a smile that just barely twists the corner of his mouth up.

                "Hey," he greets, and Castiel smiles, leaning forward and pulling Dean in for a kiss by the back of his neck. They barely get to kiss for three seconds before Jesse and Anna make obnoxious gagging noises from behind them.

                "Knock off the necking on my front porch and get in here before you let in all the cold!" Missouri calls in her bird-like voice from the kitchen. Dean chuckles against Castiel's lips, and they linger there for a moment before Cas pulls him inside, closing the door while Dean kicks off his snowy biker boots and shifts out of his jacket. Cas takes his jacket from him and hangs it in the entrance closet. When he turns, Dean is wearing a forest green flannel over a _Primus Sucks_ t-shirt, with his usual dark jeans encasing his bowed legs. Castiel doesn't understand what Dean's shirt is referencing, but he doesn't care, because Dean could be wearing compost, and he'd still look beautiful.

                Cas spots a bandage wrapped around Dean's arm, poking out from under the sleeve of his flannel, and he steps forward, taking Dean's hand and rolling up his sleeve just a bit. "What happened to you?" he asks. He doesn't remember seeing Dean with an Ace bandage at school today.

                Dean shrugs nonchalantly. "Sammy went in for a piggyback ride without warning me and I landed on my wrist wrong. It's alright."

                Castiel cocks his head to the side. He's always been a very intuitive person. He can tell when people are lying, and Dean isn't telling the truth right now. But it's not Cas's place to mention it, even as he realizes that the wrap is wound around the same arm where Dean had what Castiel thinks were Band-Aids stuck the other night. He lifts Dean's hand up to his mouth, kissing his wrist gently a few times, wishing it better nonetheless, and then he pulls Dean with him into the kitchen, shooing Jesse and Anna back into the living room to their puzzle.

                Dean nearly hits his head on the doorway into the kitchen before Cas tells him to duck under it, and then Dean is eyeing the hundreds of herbs and spices hanging in fresh clumps from the ceiling, and eyeing the dollhouse-like curtains and counters, as they step into the warmth of the room.

                Castiel hides his smile at the surprised look on Dean's face when Missouri greets him with a hug, tutting at his injured arm and brewing him up a random cup of tea made from herbs that she swears will help him heal faster. Dean doesn't complain, and drinks it quickly, claiming it actually tastes really good. Missouri says of course it does, she's the one who made it.

                Castiel watches Dean throughout the meal. He seems nervous at first, and shy, but about halfway through dinner, with Jesse and Anna flicking peas from their stew at each other, Dean's shoulders relax a bit, and Cas catches a little doe-eyed gleam to his eyes as he looks at Missouri. And Castiel gets it. Missouri has that effect on people. She makes people feel warm, and welcome, and loved, and when she talks to you, it's like you're the only one that matters, and all you want to do is be wrapped in her arms and rocked and told that everything will be okay. That's what Missouri does. She makes you feel like you're home.

                Missouri avoids asking Dean about things like school and family, almost like she knows that Dean wouldn't enjoy talking about that stuff. Who is Castiel kidding? Of course Missouri _knows_ what not to bring up with Dean. Missouri just _knows_ things like that automatically. She knows exactly how to speak to people. So she asks Dean about cars, and hobbies, and gets Dean going on a rant about the similarities between Star Wars and Star Trek, about which Dean rambles for about five minutes before he cuts himself off midsentence and blushes when he realizes how much he just spoke.

                When Dean leans back once he finishes his food, Missouri immediately snaps at him to "keep those grimy feet off my table!" Dean throws up his hands and says he didn't even do anything, but Missouri just raises her eyebrows and claims he was thinking about it as she stands to clear the dishes. Dean grumbles and straightens his flannel, but as Cas looks at him, he catches a tiny smile gracing Dean's lips, like being scolded by Missouri is enjoyable. It occurs to Castiel that Dean doesn't have a mother either. Sure, Cas has Naomi, but she's never here, and Missouri has sort of inadvertently taken her place in the mother department. Dean must be feeling the same way. Missouri has such a motherly presence, it must feel nice, despite the scolding.

                As Missouri packs away the dishes from dinner, Jesse pops up in front of Dean and challenges him to an arm wrestling match. Castiel catches his hand right before Dean grabs Jesse's, and plucks the little prank buzzer out of Jesse's palm before he has a chance to zap Dean. Dean shoots him a grateful look and then narrows his eyes at Jesse. He lets Jesse win two arm wrestling matches, but then Jesse whines that Dean is giving up too easily, so the next round, Dean beats him easily, and the kid bows to the champion and holds up the signature _Live Long and Prosper_ hand gesture from Star Trek before darting off to the living room to work more on the puzzle with Anna.

                Dean smiles and looks over at Castiel, and his face is completely relaxed, which relieves Cas. Dean is having fun, and that makes Cas happy. He takes Dean's hand under the table and gives it a gentle squeeze, sneaking in a kiss while Missouri's back is turned, although he knows by her small chuckle that she knows they're kissing anyway. He runs his thumb over Dean's scarred knuckles while Missouri brings over three small shots of espresso. Dean leans in and asks Castiel how Missouri knew he wanted coffee, keeping his voice low so Missouri presumably can't hear.

                "Missouri knows things," is all Castiel whispers back, exchanging a mischievous glance with Missouri from across the kitchen that Dean doesn't see.

                They drink their espresso and talk just a little more, and when it's around eight-thirty, they decide to head over to Castiel's. Cas says goodnight to Anna, and while he's watching from the living room, Missouri  takes Dean's hand, gently patting his arm where the Ace bandage is, looking up into his eyes earnestly.

                "You'll be alright," she says to him quietly, although loud enough for Cas to hear, and Dean smiles, but crinkles his forehead in confusion.

                "What do you mean?" he asks, and Missouri just shakes her head, patting his hand once more and pulling away to give Cas a hug before they leave.

                Dean takes a long lingering glance around Missouri's house before they step outside, and it almost looks like he wants to stay. But then, he slides his hand into Castiel's and weaves their fingers together, and says "Let's go." Cas smiles, and they step out the door together, hugging themselves against the cold and walking in silence to Castiel's house, their feet crackling and crunching over the frozen ground and the patches of icy snow. The sun has gone down, leaving just a clear sky full of stars. There's no moon out tonight, so the only light comes from the lone streetlamp and the porch lights around them.

                The moment they step inside Castiel's house, Cas swings Dean around and backs him up against the front door just like Dean did to him in the Dungeon bathroom today at school, and he crushes their mouths together. He loves the way Dean freezes a little in surprise every time Cas attacks him with a kiss like this, like Dean is giving his brain a moment to catch up. But then Dean laughs a little deep in his throat and kisses back, his hands sliding up and cupping Castiel's jaw, palms resting on the sides of his neck.

                Cas licks his way into Dean's mouth, making Dean's head thump back against the door, and they stand there kissing like that for several minutes before they're forced to break apart just to breathe. Breathing can be so inconvenient sometimes, Castiel thinks. He rests their foreheads together, smiling widely, brushing his thumb over Dean's sharp cheekbone. "I've been waiting all night to do that," he murmurs, and Dean chuckles.

                "I've created a monster," he says, and Cas shrugs. He's still a little shy when it comes to all this sex stuff, and it isn't like he and Dean have done a _lot_ in the way of _actual_ sex. They've kissed countless times, yes, but Castiel is still shy about it. However, he loves the feeling of power when he can press Dean back against a wall or down into the pillows of his bed, and just kiss him stupid. He loves the way Dean submits so willingly under his hands, and lets Castiel move him to his will. Castiel never realized he'd be so dominant in bed but, hey, the more you know.

                He kisses Dean once more, and then backs up a couple steps, pulling his jacket off as Dean does the same. Dean sheds his flannel as well, hanging them both on the coat rack, and leaving him in just his _Primus Sucks_ t-shirt and jeans. He even kicks off his boots and tucks his socks inside of them, and Castiel smiles, because Dean seems comfortable here. And seeing Dean comfortable makes Cas happy. He has no idea why.

                Castiel steps down the hallway really quickly and turns on the heat in the house. Kevin had come over this weekend and taken a look at it, and Castiel crosses his fingers as he flips the switch. That signature screeching car crash sound reverberates through the walls of the house for a moment, and then the heat kicks on. Dean's eyes widen from where he's still standing down the hall, and Cas just shrugs.

                "It's an old house," he explains, "The heater is broken more than it's not."

                Just as he says this, there's a strange whistling in the walls, and then the heating vents sputter and die. Castiel looks up at the vent closest to him, and groans, flipping the heater switch up and down a few times before shivering. The house is freezing.

                "Did it just break again?" Dean asks, a smile tugging at his lips as he watches Castiel.

                Cas rolls his eyes and shuts the closet. "Yes," he replies, "I don't know why we even bother with that thing."

                Dean chuckles and pulls Cas in for another quick kiss, taking Cas's cold hands and wrapping them in his own, blowing hot air in to try and warm them up. "You know, Sammy's bedroom light has been broken for a couple years, and he always has a bunch of candles lit in there. It makes the room like twenty degrees hotter than the rest of the house. We could try that?"

                Cas cocks his head to the side. "Does that really work?"

                Dean nods a bit. "Do you have candles?"

                Cas purses his lips, and catches Dean glancing at them. "I think my mother keeps some packed away in the back of the hutch," he says, turning and savoring the feeling of Dean's calloused palms sliding away from his hands as he pulls them free. He manages to fish out a dozen or so candles of all different varieties. Some are fruit scented, others Christmas cookie, and some of them are just candle sticks, for which Cas pulls out stands.

                "Perfect," Dean says, grinning at Cas with his lovely white smile that just makes Castiel want to faint every time. He leads Dean upstairs and together they set up the candles on whatever surfaces they can in Castiel's bedroom. Some of them are stacked on his dresser, some on the desk and nightstand, and a couple are placed on the floor in the corner, away from anything that could possibly catch on fire.

                Dean whips out his Zippo lighter and touches the flame to each wick, slowly filling the room with a soft, orange glow, shadows dancing on the walls.

                "Do you want to watch a movie?" Castiel asks as he scoots a candle back from the edge of his dresser, shucking his jeans off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He tosses the sweatpants Dean wore the other morning to him, and Dean shoots him a grateful look, changing into them. Castel can't help but watch Dean change, admiring the more obvious bow of his legs when they're bare. Dean is well-muscled and his lightly-haired skin is surprisingly tan for winter, although that might just be the candlelight making everything glow a bit darker.

                "Let's just hang out," Dean suggests, flopping back on Castiel's bed, "I don't feel like watching anything. I just want to talk."

                Cas smiles a bit at that, and nods, closing the bedroom door so that the heat from the candles can eventually fill the room.

                "Will you teach me more origami?" Dean asks, eyeing the origami crane mobile spinning lazily above the bed.

                "Sure," Castiel replies, wandering over to his desk and pulling out a stack of different colored papers, carrying them to the bed. Dean sits cross-legged near the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed, and Castiel sits across from him, just enough space between them for the paper. Dean has a permanent smile on his face, but it's one of those smiles that doesn't reach his lips. It's all in his eyes, and they twinkle like stars in the candlelight.

                Cas instructs Dean how to make several different origami creations, walking him through how to make a koi fish, and an apple, and Spongebob Squarepants, which Dean claims is his favorite so far. Dean picks up on it surprisingly quickly each time, and Castiel can't help but smile. Dean is so smart, and such a fast learner, it's both impressive and enviable. Castiel has to stop himself more than once from leaning forward and kissing him.

                Dean chuckles under his breath at one point. "So you really taught yourself all this, huh?" he muses, breaking Castiel out of his most recent fantasy of kissing Dean, twirling his koi fish around by the tail. He sounds impressed, or in awe.

                Cas smiles, reaching out and fixing the fin on Dean's fish. "Yes," he replies, "I lived in Oklahoma for a while, and didn't have any friends, so I just checked out origami books from the library at school and hid in my room."

                Dean snorts. "Sounds like something Sammy would do," he says, picking up another piece of paper to make something else, "I still can't believe you've lived in twenty-eight different places."

                Cas huffs a little laugh. "I find it equally as hard to imagine living in the same place your entire life."

                Dean glances up at him, shrugging. "It's a little boring, sure, but it's not too bad," he replies, eyeing Castiel. Cas has to look down before he blushes. Every time Dean looks at him, it's like Castiel is the only person in the world who matters, and he's not quite sure how to handle that feeling. "Where was your favorite place to live?" Dean asks, eventually lowering his eyes back to his newest origami creation.

                Cas purses his lips, watching Dean's big hands work as he thinks. He's never taken the time to consider which house was his favorite. They were just _places_ , beds in which he slept and streets on which he walked. None of them were home, and he didn't really ever take the time to consider them as anything more than temporary. He knows that Anna's favorite will always be the little house they had in Arizona, with the swing in the backyard and the cactus garden near the garage. But as far as what Castiel's favorite is, he has no idea.

                So he just shrugs. "I don't really have a favorite," he says, straightening out the stem on his origami apple in front him, "All of the places I've lived have their ups and downs, but I've never really stayed long enough to grow particularly attached to any of them."

                Dean studies him for a moment, biting his lip, and Castiel actually rocks forward slightly with the desire to kiss him before again restraining himself. _God_ , this is getting ridiculous, how irresistible Dean is. "Well you've gotta have some good stories or something, right?" Dean urges, "You've never lived somewhere really fucked up or anything?"

                Cas huffs a little laugh. "We have lived in some fairly run down places, yes, but there aren't many particularly good stories attached to those," he replies, before pursing his lips and then shrugging a little, "Well...there was this one house in New York we lived in for a while that had dozens of stray animals living in the basement."

                Dean's eyes widen. "Are you serious?" he asks, "Did you have to give them to the pound or something?"

                "Oh, no," Castiel says, shaking his head, "I took care of them. We only lived there for about five months, but I brought them food and water and bathed them all."

                Dean's face softens a little, and he smiles. "How old were you?"

                Castiel thinks for a moment. "Eight, I believe," he replies, and then pauses before chuckling a bit, "I was successful in keeping the strays a secret from my parents, although they weren't really ever there. Anna was only an infant, so my father took her with him on his business, and I was left alone in the house for the most part. I lost a lot of weight because I fed all my food to the stray animals, but it was worth it to see all of them restored back to health."

                Dean stares at Castiel, and Cas has to look away, blushing furiously, because Dean is giving him one of those looks of unmasked affection that Cas almost can't handle. He doesn't understand why a guy like Dean, who is practically a _god_ , is looking at him like that. Cas is just so plain and ordinary - he doesn't inspire that kind of look from people like Dean. He doesn't understand it.

                "What happened to all the animals when you left?" Dean asks, and Cas's face falls just a bit.

                He looks down at his hands. "My parents returned from their respective business trips and informed me that we were moving away again, and that very same day, we packed our belongings and left for Minnesota. I never got to say goodbye to all the animals," he says, chewing on his lip, "I must have cried for two weeks straight after we moved, but I never told my parents why. And they didn't ever ask."

                Dean's face creases with sympathy. "I'm sorry, that sucks," he says, and he sounds like he means it. Cas gives him a half-hearted smile.

                "It's alright," he says, "It was almost ten years ago." He grabs another piece of paper to start making something else, thinking about all those stray dogs and cats in that basement. They'd honestly been his friends when he didn't have any human ones. Castiel had a harder time leaving them than he has had in leaving any people he's met in schools over the years. Animals are truly nicer than humans.

                "What about any other places you lived?" Dean asks, chuckling as he holds up his origami creation he's just made. It takes Castiel a moment to realize Dean has just made an origami penis, and a surprisingly good one. He blushes and chuckles a little at the immature grin on Dean's face, and Dean offers the penis up. "A gift for you," he says, and Cas nods once.

                "Thank you, that's very kind of you," he says, taking the proffered penis and placing it on his nightstand on display. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he works on folding his newest piece of paper and thinks of more stories he could tell Dean. It baffles him that Dean even wants to sit here and listen to Castiel tell his stories. No one has ever regarded Castiel with such interest before in his entire life.

                He sighs a bit, and looks back up at Dean, only to find Dean staring at him, almost reverently. Cas almost jumps at the intense look in Dean's eyes, like Castiel has a spotlight on him, but he just stares back for a moment, giving Dean a small smile when Dean gives him one.

                "Have you ever lived anywhere that was haunted?" Dean asks, fiddling with his Spongebob Squarepants origami piece as he studies Castiel. Cas huffs a little laugh.

                "Anna thinks this house is haunted," he replies, "Does that count?"

                Dean snorts. "Everyone thinks _everywhere_ in Rail Pass is haunted. It's just 'cause of the whole Elsa Hautley thing in the woods."

                Cas nods a bit. "I don't know if I believe in all that stuff," he says, "I certainly used to, but not anymore."

                Dean cocks his head a little. "What made you change your mind?"

                Castiel shrugs, licking his chapped lips. "I guess I just grew up," he says, "But I did live in this house in Colorado that I was almost certain was haunted while I was living there. Lights were always turning on by themselves, and I would hear a woman singing in the middle of the night in the attic. I was always too afraid to go up there."

                Dean laughs. "Call the fucking Ghostbusters," he says, itching his arm where the Ace bandage is wrapped around it. Castiel eyes the bandage curiously again, and Dean catches him looking. He clears his throat a little.

                "Sammy used to do this thing when he was little where he would make me go on these ghost hunts with him out in the woods, or just in our house," Dean says, distracting Cas from his bandaged arm, "I would always try to find ways to scare him just to make it more fun, but he literally _never_ got scared. He was the bravest little kid. He'd just keep on going like a real life ghost hunter."

                Castiel chuckles a bit, a familiar swell of adoration forming in his chest with every mention Dean makes of Sam. It's adorable how much Dean clearly loves Sam. "You must have a lot of interesting stories about your childhood," he comments, rolling the paper in his fingers to create a petal for the origami lily he's making.

                Dean looks down at his hands in his lap, shrugging a little. "Nah, not really," he says, "There's honestly not that much to tell."

                Cas snorts. "Oh come on, there must be something," he coaxes, "Everyone has stories."

                Dean huffs a little laugh, picking up his origami apple and fiddling with it. "I'm just not really sure any of mine are worth telling," he says, hesitating before looking up at Cas. When Dean sees how intently Castiel is staring at him, he lowers his eyes again, and Cas notes that Dean looks a little nervous. This boy gets nervous at the strangest of times.

                "I guess...well there was this one story," Dean begins, hesitating and chewing on his lip before chuckling a little, "Me and Sammy drove out to Wyoming one year for Fourth of July and ended up burning down a field with a bunch of stolen fireworks."

                Castiel laughs. "See? That's a story worth telling," he says, and Dean glances up at him before laughing too.

                "Sam was all convinced we had to turn ourselves in for committing such a _heinous_ crime, but I just got us the hell out of there the second we heard the first sirens," Dean says, smiling to himself and picking at the paper apple in his hands.

                "You love your brother," Castiel says, smiling at Dean, and Dean glances up at him again before huffing another little laugh.

                "Yeah," he agrees, "He's a royal pain in my ass though. He ran away for a couple weeks about a year and a half ago, made it all the way to Flagstaff before I managed to track him down. My dad tore me a new one over that."

                Castiel cocks his head to the side. He remembers Missouri mentioning that Dean's father has a reputation in this town, and Bobby had once mentioned that Dean's father is a _piece of work_.  Castiel doesn't even pretend to know what that means, but the way Dean avoids talking about his dad, and the condition Dean's body is in so often, all bruised and splinted and broken, makes Castiel think that it isn't just fights with other students that Dean is getting into. He studies Dean's face.

                "Did you ever do anything fun with your father?" he asks, immediately feeling stupid for prying. It's obvious there are certain subjects that Dean just doesn't want to delve into, and his father seems to be one of them. All Castiel wants to do is help him, but he doesn't know how. And it's so frustrating. Especially when Castiel isn't exactly a poster child for mental stability, with all his issues and insecurities.

                Dean picks absently at the Ace bandage wrapped around his arm while he thinks, giving a small shrug. "There was this one time when I was six where my dad brought me out to the woods and taught me how to shoot," he finally says, and Castiel stares at him curiously, his origami lily all but abandoned on the bed in front of him, "I managed to bullseye three cans in a row, and my dad was so proud of me that he took me out and bought me my first bike that afternoon."

                Dean is smiling as he says it, but Castiel can't make himself smile for some reason. It's a happy story, but the way Dean is telling it makes it seem tragic. So he just stares at Dean in silence until Dean looks up at him again. Dean has a raw look in his eyes, and Castiel quickly realizes that he's pushing him too far. He doesn't want to scare Dean away by prying into his personal life. Dean was so happy, practically _glowing_ , by the time they left Missouri's, and now he looks a little sad. So Castiel shakes himself a bit and forces himself not to ask any more questions about Dean's personal life. They have plenty of time to do that later, delve into their personal crap.

                "In the apartment I lived in right before I moved to Rail Pass, there was a toilet that kept getting clogged with the neighbor's trash," Castiel blurts out, swiftly changing the subject, and he actually sees the relief on Dean's face, "Somehow, all our plumping was connected, and the neighbors upstairs kept throwing random things in the toilet that weren't supposed to go in there, and the trash would somehow end up coming up the drain into our toilet. We found electric bills and Mardi Gras beads, and even a watch once."

                Dean barks a laugh. "How is that even possible?" he asks, "Where did you live?"

                Castiel smiles a bit, just because Dean is smiling. "Chicago," he replies, "But a pretty rundown part of Chicago. There were always drunk people and gangs and the walls in our apartment building were too thin. Anna had to sleep in my bed most nights because she was scared to sleep in her room."

                Dean's face falls a little. "That actually sounds kind of bad," he says.

                Castiel shrugs. "It was certainly an experience," he replies, "But we didn't live there that long, and Rail Pass is definitely preferable."

                Dean studies him for a moment, shaking his head a little. "It's just insane you've lived in so many different places," he breathes, "I mean, how do you keep track? I would have lost count by now."

                Cas smiles a little, sliding off the bed and walking over to his desk. He feels Dean's eyes on him as he walks, and he can't suppress the blush that colors his cheeks at the amount of attention he's receiving. He reaches in his desk drawer and pulls out his notebook, carrying it back to the bed. "I took a picture of every house I ever lived in, and put them in this book," he says, sliding onto the bed and sitting right next to Dean this time instead of across from him, so that he can open the book of houses and balance it on both of their laps, "I glue the pictures in here, and write down where I lived and when I lived there. I still have to take a picture of this house and add Rail Pass in, but this is every place I've ever lived right here in one book."

                Dean looks down at the book, his hand hovering over the pages for a moment before he flips through them. Castiel watches his face, watches the way Dean studies each and every photograph like they're the most interesting thing he's ever seen. As Dean flips through each page, Castiel tells stories about things that happened in each of the houses, from the time Anna decided to parachute off the balcony of their house in Idaho and broke her wrist, to the time Castiel found a bee's nest inside a Russian Matryoshka doll in his closet in their ranch house in Tennessee, to the time Castiel smoked weed with a group of students from his school whom he thought were his friends and only turned out to be using him for his book smarts.

                Dean provides some of his own stories about his childhood as well. Most of them involve Sam, and the antics he and Dean got up to growing up. To be honest, most of Castiel's stories involve him somehow finding ways to entertain himself alone. He didn't have many friends, if any. He was alone for most of the time, or with Anna. Dean looks over at him and studies his face as Castiel tells a story of this bully he had in a town he lived in near Little Rock, and how Cas would hide in the old tree house in the yard of their house every afternoon while the bully walked by on his way home from school.

                Dean stares at Castiel while he tells the story, and when Cas finally looks at Dean, Dean has a remorseful expression on his face that Castiel doesn't understand. "Cas..." Dean begins, seeming to hesitate and then biting his lip, "Have you been bullied a lot?"

                Castiel stares at him, their shoulders pressed together from where they're sitting so close, the book of houses balanced on both of their laps. "Yes," he replies honestly, swallowing, "But it's alright. I think it taught me a lot about the nature of human beings in general."

                Dean lowers his eyes back to the notebook, trailing his fingers over the photograph of the house near Little Rock, and Castiel sees his throat ripple as he swallows. "I'm so s-" Dean begins, but Castiel cuts him off with a finger to his lips, because he knows Dean was about to apologize again for bullying him. Castiel doesn't want to hear Dean say he's sorry anymore.

                "No," he says, shaking his head, "No more apologies. I've forgiven you Dean."

                Dean's wide eyes turn on him, and Castiel pulls his finger away from Dean's soft lips before he gives in to the urge to kiss him. "You have more than made up or what happened last semester," Castiel says, looking earnestly into Dean's eyes, "I don't want to hear any more apologies from you. We've moved past that."

                Dean stares at him, and while Castiel can tell that the guilt is still there, Dean nods nonetheless, his eyes darting all over Castiel's face before finally lowering back to the book of houses, flipping to the next page. "Sammy is working on this project for school where he has to go through all these albums and family history and stuff," Dean says, changing the subject, to Castiel's relief, "This notebook is kind of like the ones my mom used to keep. We have all these scrapbooks and albums in the attic that Sam's planning on going through."

                Cas smiles a little, eyeing the photograph of the apartment in Chicago. "It's a nice way to document things, I think. I've always loved albums like this."

                Dean flips back through a few pages in the book of houses, studying each picture, but Castiel just looks at him. Dean is so _beautiful_ in the candlelight, like a painting. He has a bit of stubble, just a shadow against his smooth skin, and his eyelashes fan upwards in dark arches that soften his angry features. Castiel had gotten used to the nearly permanent look of anger on Dean's face in school, but lately he's been seeing more expressions. When Dean is happy, his entire face transforms into that of a child, sweet and innocent and soft, and for a while Castiel forgets that Dean is troubled. He forgets about the reputation that precedes Dean Winchester, and all the fights Dean gets in, and all the rumors about him, some of which are true.

                Before Castiel knows what he's doing, he lifts his hand away from the edge of the book of houses, and he trails his fingers along Dean's sharp jaw, making Dean jump a little in surprise. But Cas can't help it - he can't believe Dean is even _real_ , let alone sitting right next to Cas here in his bed. Dean looks down at Cas's hand touching his face, and then over at Castiel. Cas's fingers travel up to Dean's high cheekbone, and he traces a faint bruise that is fading there on his skin.

                "Where is this from?" Cas asks, eyeing the bruise, and Dean winces a little as he prods too roughly.

                He shrugs. "Just roughhousing with Sammy," he replies, and Castiel knows instantly that Dean's lying. God, there's _so much_ Dean doesn't say. Castiel stares into his eyes, searching for the truth, but it's not there. Dean is so good at hiding it. There's so _much_ he's hiding. Maybe he's reading too much into it, but Castiel has never met someone who has so many secrets. But he's not going to push Dean. He's beginning to get the picture. There are most assuredly things in Castiel's own life that he doesn't want to talk about, and Dean must have things like that too. But it's still frustrating, because Cas wants to help Dean, and he doesn't know _how_. He doesn't even know what's _wrong_.

                All he knows is that he wants so desperately to erase that look on Dean's face that he gets when he thinks no one else is watching, the pain that's so clearly etched there that Dean thinks no one else can see. He wants to take Dean's pain away, and Castiel has no idea how, or even _why_ he feels so strongly about this.

                Dear god, what is Dean doing to him?

                "When Jesse gets hurt next door," Castiel says, leaning a bit closer to Dean, "Sometimes Missouri will tell him that a kiss heals everything."

                Dean eyes Castiel, a tiny smile touching his lips. "Is that supposed to be some kind of cheesy pick up line?"

                Cas chuckles a bit. "Maybe," he replies, leaning in and ghosting his lips gently over the bruise on Dean's cheek. He lets his lips linger there for a moment, kissing away the pain, willing away the source of this bruise. He places several gentle kisses to Dean's cheek, up over his temple, and then down along his jaw. He feels Dean smiling a bit, his cheekbone lifting with the movement, and then Dean reaches up, taking Castiel's chin in his large, strong hand, tilting his face up and pressing their lips together.

                Castiel feels a rush of chills wash through him at the feeling of Dean's lips against his own. It's like every time he kisses Dean, it gets better and better. His lips are softer, his mouth tastes sweeter, and the feeling of being connected with Dean like this becomes more and more addicting. Dean's hand moves from his chin to the back of his head, and Castiel straightens up a bit, leaning into Dean, taking the book of houses and tossing it on the floor next to the bed.

                Dean huffs a little as Castiel's hand comes to rest on his side, his breath washing over Castiel's face, muscles rippling and tensing beneath his shirt. They kiss like that for a while, and it's all a little awkward at this angle, but Castiel doesn't care. He'll take whatever he can get, and he always wants _more_. He wants to disappear into Dean, be consumed by him.

                The second Cas feels his dick start to stir in his pants - and honestly, it really doesn't take much to get him going when it involves Dean - Castiel feels that overwhelming urge to grab Dean and take control. Cas has no idea where these feelings are coming from, but he just loves the sensation of Dean writhing under his hands, loves to hold Dean down and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. Just the thought of it is making Castiel rapidly harden in his pants.

                He shifts, pressing one hand to Dean's shoulder and pushing him back on the bed, climbing on top of him. Just like on Friday night, Dean instantly stiffens, and Castiel senses fear as he moves on top of Dean. Dean is scared again all of the sudden, and Cas has no idea why. But he doesn't stop, because even though he can sense that Dean is afraid right now, Dean's hands are also clinging to his sides, silently begging him not to stop.

                So Castiel holds Dean gently, and runs his fingers through Dean's soft hair, and down the side of his face, soothing him until Dean relaxes again, melting into the bed and kissing Castiel back. Castiel continues to remind Dean with touches that he's not going to hurt him, and Dean eventually parts his lips and allows Cas to slide his tongue inside his mouth. Castiel groans a bit as he licks into Dean's mouth, and he slots one thigh between Dean's, pressing their bodies together on top of the blankets.

                Castiel is surprised when Dean is the first one to roll his hips, ever-so-slightly up against Cas, and they both gasp when Dean's slowly-growing erection presses to the crease of Castiel's hip. Cas answers with a small thrust of his own, dragging his own erection along Dean's thigh, and they both gasp again, Dean's hands winding around and clinging to Castiel's back, his blunt fingertips digging into Cas's skin through his shirt.

                Castiel breaks off the kiss only for a moment, sitting up and pulling his shirt off over his head, tossing it to the floor, and Dean's glowing green eyes wander down his torso. It's lighter in here than it was on Friday, so Dean can see everything now in the candlelight. Dean's hands come up and trail down Castiel's chest, almost like Cas is a work of art, and Castiel stares down at him as Dean touches him, smiling a little.

                Dean's fingers land on the jagged scar running along the side of Castiel's stomach, and Cas looks down as Dean's forehead crinkles. Dean seems to hesitate, and then looks up at Cas. "Where did you get this?" he asks, running his fingers along the scar. Cas looks down at the scar, at Dean's lovely fingers tracing it, and then he sighs a little, taking Dean's hand and kissing his knuckles before blanketing himself over the green-eyed boy again.

                "That's a story for another day," he replies, kissing Dean again before Dean can say anything more. He doesn't want to ruin the moment by bringing up some other random childhood tragedy. Nothing kills the mood like crying about the past.

                Dean seems to accept that, and melts into their kissing again, and eventually, they're both rutting slowly against each other, just a smooth drag of their hips as they set up a steady rhythm, huffing little gasps and groans into their kisses. Castiel's hands glide down Dean's muscular torso, and start to slip in underneath his shirt. He wants nothing more than to feel the soft warmth of Dean's bare skin against his, but just like Friday night, Dean freezes the moment Cas tries to take his shirt off.

                And Cas can't help it. He pulls away, so that he can look down into Dean's eyes and catch that glimpse of _something_ there in those green depths before Dean covers it with humor or sarcasm. Castiel can't put a name to the specific emotion he sees in Dean's eyes whenever he tries to take Dean's shirt off. It's like Dean has specific emotions linked to each and every move Cas makes while they're doing something personal like this. There's the fear that's constantly boiling beneath the surface - Castiel can feel it with every time that Dean stiffens under Cas's hands. And there's caution, which is what Castiel sees in Dean's eyes now.

                What Dean doesn't know, though, is that Castiel has already figured it out. At least part of it. He knows that Dean has some sort of scarring all over his side. He felt the scars the last time they were in bed together. But what Dean hasn't figured out is that Castiel is one of the most nonjudgmental people he'll ever meet, and a few scars isn't enough to scare Cas away. 

                Still, he'll respect Dean's cautions. If Dean doesn't want him to see the scars, Castiel won't push him. So Cas gives Dean a little smile, brushing a thumb over one of his sharp cheekbones as if trying to wipe away that look in his eyes, and then he leans over and blows out the candles on the nightstand. There are still candles lit on the desk and the dresser across the room, but blowing out these candles closest to them shrouds the bed in near-darkness.

                He can physically feel Dean relax beneath him as he snuffs out the source of light, and then Castiel leans back down without another word and presses their lips together again, kissing the rest of that tension out of this gorgeous boy beneath him. He's pleased when Dean reaches down by himself and pulls his own shirt off over his head, tossing it to the floor, and the way Dean's hands come up and pull Cas down on top of him, clinging to him, almost feels like a thank you. Castiel smiles into the kiss, because he can actually _feel_ Dean growing more comfortable. Even though this is only the second (well, third if you count the party in Johnson) time they've been together like this, it feels like they've been doing this for a thousand years, and Dean's body is just an old friend, familiar and comforting and warm, like coming home after a long day.

                Cas lets his hands slide up and down Dean's hard chest and stomach, feeling the way Dean's stomach muscles tense and relax when Cas's fingers brush the scars that he has yet to see with his own eyes. But there's time for that later. Right now, it just feels too good rolling their hips together, and through their sweatpants, Castiel can feel Dean's aching dick, fully hard and probably leaking by now, as is Castiel's, and every languid drag of their hips together is torturous and draws a groan from each of them.

                Dean is the first one to reach down and thumb at the waistband of Castiel's pants, and while Castiel sits up and struggles to shuck off his pants, he's surprised to see Dean removing his own so quickly. Dean had been so shy, nay _scared_ , to do that on Friday night too. But here he is undressing with Cas, caution-free and trusting. At least, that's what Castiel's likes to think anyway. He imagines that if this part of the room weren't so shrouded in shadows right now, he'd see some sort of fear in Dean's eyes that Dean is doing a really good job at hiding right now.

                So when Castiel blankets himself over Dean again, he does it carefully, bracketing Dean in with his arms and looking down at him in the dark for a moment, wishing he could see those glowing green eyes. Dean reaches up and wraps one hand around the back of Castiel's neck, pulling him down so they can press their lips together again, and Castiel lets himself melt over Dean completely, settling between Dean's legs where he willingly has spread them to make room. The second their hard cocks touch through the thin material of their boxers, both of them suck in sharp gasps, and Castiel swallows Dean's groan, rolling his hips forward and slowly dragging the length of his erection up Dean's, feeling the damp spot on both of their underwear where they've leaked through with precome from all the teasing and rutting.

                Dean is the first to slide his hand down and cup Castiel's dick through his boxers, and Castiel jerks and groans as Dean's large hand wraps around his shaft through the thin material, stroking him to the point where Cas is almost painfully hard. Castiel's hands grip Dean's broad shoulders tightly, and he presses their mouths together hard, sucking Dean's plump lower lip into his mouth and giving it a playful nip that makes Dean jump a little and huff a small laugh. Castiel hesitates for a moment, unsure whether he should touch Dean's dick too. The last couple times he touched Dean there, Dean had panicked.

                He lays there for a moment on top of Dean, kissing him roughly and rolling his hips forward into Dean's hand, before deciding to pull away for a moment. He can't help the tiny moan that escapes his throat as he shifts and his erection is pressed further into Dean's palm, but he has to keep control of himself for a moment.

                "Can I?" Castiel asks, mirroring the way he asked for permission on Friday night.

                Dean's hand pauses for a moment where he's stroking Castiel, and in the silence of the room, he hears Dean swallow with an audible click. And then, Dean's free hand comes up and takes one of Castiel's, cupping the back of his hand and moving it down slowly, until Cas's palm is settled over the large tent in Dean's boxers. He feels Dean shiver a little beneath him as Castiel's hand touches Dean's dick, but then Cas smiles a little and starts to stroke. Dean's head slams back into the pillows and he gasps harshly.

                Cas smiles and leans down, latching his mouth to the side of Dean's neck, sucking gently but not leaving any marks, though he wants to. He's not sure if Dean is the type of person who likes to display hickies somewhere where everyone can see. Dean's breath hitches and his legs twitch near Castiel's hips as Cas nips and licks the tender skin of his throat, working his way down and laving at the dip of Dean's clavicle. All the while, he sets up a steady pace with his hand on Dean's cock, one that matches the speed of Dean's strokes on his own weeping dick.

                Once again, despite the fact that they haven't even removed all of their clothing yet, Castiel can feel his orgasm building steadily in his lower abdomen, and he knows just a dozen or so more strokes like this, and he'll be coming in his pants. He knows it has a lot to do with the fact that he's a virgin still, that it's so easy to get him going and make him come so fast, but Castiel had prided himself with the fact that he's been able to last quite a long time in bed so far. He was afraid at first that someone with a lot of experience like Dean wouldn't have much patience with Castiel's inexperience in bed, but so far, Dean has been nothing but patient and kind. Castiel feels worshipped when he's with Dean, and in return, all Cas wants to do is worship Dean back.

                He buries his face in Dean's neck, slowing down the roll of his hips for a moment, feeling his orgasm spiking, and he gives Dean's shoulder a warning squeeze. "Wait, wait," he breathes, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to stave off his orgasm.

                Dean's hand instantly halts on his dick, and they both freeze for a moment, panting in the semi-darkness. "Are you okay?" Dean asks, obvious concern in his voice, and Castiel huffs a little embarrassed laugh.

                "Yes, I'm fine," he groans, clenching his muscles to try to kill the fire burning low in his gut, "I just don't want to come yet."

                Dean surprises him by letting out a bark of laughter. "Wow, that good huh?" he asks, and Castiel huffs into his neck.

                "You really know what you're doing," he compliments, realizing belatedly that his hand is still resting on Dean's dick, although he's stopped stroking him. Dean chuckles a little, his free hand coming up and running through Castiel's soft hair. Cas melts into Dean, closing his eyes for a moment as he catches his breath. He's like a cat sometimes - if someone plays with his hair, he's just done. He's in heaven.

                It takes him a long moment to realize that he can feel fine tremors rolling off of Dean. Dean's shoulders are quaking beneath him, as are his legs, and his hands. Cas's forehead crinkles in confusion and he lifts himself up a bit, just enough so he's looking down into Dean's face, even though he can't really see him in the dark. He runs his free hand along Dean's shoulders and arms, as if trying to smooth away the trembling.

                "You're shaking," he says, reaching up and removing Dean's hand from his hair so that he can hold it. Dean's fingers twitch and tremble a little, but he still wraps his hand around Castiel's in return.

                "'M fine," he says, even as Cas hears him swallow again, gulping like a child.

                Cas stares down at Dean in the dark, wishing he could see his face, because something _happened_ to Dean to make him this way. No one behaves like this and is completely okay. But before Cas can think too much on it (not like he hasn't been obsessing over it every waking moment anyway) Dean's hand on his dick suddenly moves away from the crotch of his boxers, sliding up just a bit, and then dipping into the waistband of his underwear, pulling them down halfway.

                Cas chuckles a little, huffing a little breath and letting go of Dean's hand so that he can help push his boxers down his hips. He kicks them off onto the floor, and wastes no time in reaching down and removing Dean's. Dean shivers again as Cas removes his boxers, but Castiel ignores it, trusting that Dean will tell him to stop if he wants him to. Cas sort of pauses though, once they're both naked, because he doesn't really know where to go from here. Are they going to have sex? What kind of sex? Is Castiel going to suck Dean off again, or the other way around? He never realized how much discussion is involved in having sex until now, and Dean seems to notice his hesitation.

                "Are you alright?" he asks, and Castiel chews on his lip, hovering over Dean, biting back a groan as he feels their hard dicks brush.

                "I...don't really know what I'm doing," Castiel admits, blushing a bit. For once, he's thankful for how dark it is here near the bed. Dean can't see his embarrassment written all over his face. He feels like such a _virgin_.    

                Dean chuckles a little, shifting under him. "It's okay," he says, and all at once, Castiel is being flipped over. He doesn't even realize it until his head hits the pillows and Dean is now above him. He blinks, orienting himself again, and lets out a small laugh.

                "What are we doing?" he asks softly, unable to stop himself from reaching up and trailing his fingers along the side of Dean's neck and down his chest, again reminding himself that this is real.

                Dean just shakes his head and leans down, brushing their lips together. "Just let me lead," he says, and it sounds like a reassurance. Castiel relaxes back into the blankets, trusting that Dean won't push things further than Castiel is ready for. He's not sure if he's ready to actually have penetrative sex, but the way Dean's hand slides down and wraps around Castiel's dick suggests to him that that's not what Dean is after right now.

                Cas arches a bit off the bed as Dean slides his hand up and down his dick a few times, igniting that fire low in his gut that had waned a bit. Then Dean is leaning down and pressing their lips together again, and Cas moans into his mouth, craning his neck to deepen the kiss. Dean presses down and slots their bodies together, and then to Castiel's surprise, he takes both of their dicks in hand. Castiel nearly comes right then and there from the sensation of Dean's hot, throbbing dick pressed right up against his. He can't stop the way his hips buck upwards into the circle of Dean's hand, and Dean responds with a deep groan, reaching over with his free hand and taking one of Castiel's, placing it around their shafts as well. Castiel automatically laces his fingers with Dean's, encasing both their dicks in the circle of their hands, and then he follows Dean's lead, stroking both of them at the same time.

                Castiel can't help the hitch in his breath as they start to move, can't help the way his hips roll forward, thrusting upwards into their hands, enjoying the way the head of Dean's leaking dick presses to his own, smearing precome in the most obscene way against their palms on the upstroke. Dean pauses after a few minutes of this, breaking off their kiss for a moment and looking around.

                "Do you have lotion or something?" he asks, and Castiel cocks his head to the side as best he can where it's pressed into the pillows.

                "Do you have dry skin?" he asks, and Dean looks down at him before bursting out laughing, bowing his head over Castiel's shoulder as his body shakes with his laughter.

                "No Cas," he replies, shaking his head and placing a kiss to Castiel's lips, even as Cas regards him with confusion, "It's for lube."

                Understanding flashes in Castiel's mind, and he colors in embarrassment. "Oh," he says, biting his lip to hold back a smile. He reluctantly released their dicks between them and reaches to the side, fumbling in his nightstand drawer for a moment for his hand lotion that he never uses. He holds it out to Dean. "Will this work?"

                Dean is still stifling his last few chuckles, and he nods, taking the bottle. "Yeah, that's fine Cas," he says, and even in the darkness, Castiel can see how widely Dean is grinning, like Cas is just the most entertaining person. He doesn't understand why Dean is laughing, but he smiles despite himself, because seeing Dean happy like this is much more preferable to Dean being scared.

                He watches Dean's silhouette as Dean pops the cap on the lotion, squirting some into his hand and then tossing the bottle aside. He takes both of them in hand again, and Castiel hisses as the cold lotion touches the overheated skin of his dick. Dean winces in apology, and quickly rubs the lotion up and down a bit to warm it up. Castiel wraps his hand around their dicks again too, lacing their fingers together once more.

                "Y'know, if we're gonna keep doing this, we should really invest in some real lube," Dean chuckles, even as he groans a little at the feel of the smooth lotion on his erection.

                Castiel cocks his head again. "Where do people even get lube?" he asks, as Dean blankets himself over Cas again.

                "They sell it at the grocery store," he replies, "You've never bought lube before?"

                Cas shakes his head. "No," he replies, "In case you hadn't noticed, I haven't exactly needed any."

                Dean chuckles again, and Castiel would really like to know what's so funny. But he's more just happy that Dean is laughing at all. It feels good to see Dean laugh instead of shake. Dean leans down and presses their mouths together again briefly. "Alright, we should stop talking now," he says, his voice half-laughing and half-groaning as they begin to move their hands again.

                Castiel sucks in a sharp breath and bites out a particularly loud groan as they start to stroke again. The lotion makes all the difference, and he didn't even realize it before. But now the circle of their intertwined hands is perfectly slick and perfectly hot, and his thighs tremble with the effort it takes not to just buck upwards and pick up the pace. When Dean kisses him again, Castiel's free hand comes up and winds through his hair, gripping the strands a little rougher than he meant to and tearing a groan from Dean's throat.

                Dean's free arm rests near Castiel's head, holding him up so that Dean can continue to roll his hips between them. The pacing is a little uneven at first, a little sloppy, but then they get the hang of it and set up a steady rhythm, and soon they're a gasping, groaning, sweating mess of writhing bodies in the dark, thrusting against each other, their kisses breaking off and starting up again as they struggle to suck in enough air. Castiel can feel Dean trembling again, but this time, he doesn't sense fear, just ecstasy as Dean continues to roll his hips forward, pumping into their hands.

                Dean is such a solid, comforting mass above him. Castiel almost wishes he could see him, could see the red flush of arousal on his broad chest, see his wide green eyes burst as he comes. Maybe one day he'll be able to. But for now, Castiel just closes his eyes in the dark, holding onto Dean's hair and gasping as he feels his orgasm building again, making his fingertips and toes tingle.

                Castiel feels that inexplicable dominance suddenly growing in his chest again, and before he even knows what he's doing, he's suddenly uprooting them both, flipping them over so fast that Dean gasps in surprise and releases their dicks as his head hits the pillows again. Castiel settles on top of him once more, between his legs, and takes both of them in hand without pause, even as Dean remains frozen there for a moment in shock at Castiel taking control like that.

                Cas feels Dean's body tense again, that inexplicable fear returning, although a lot less intense than before. So as Castiel takes both their dicks in hand again, he places his free hand on the side of Dean's face, sweeping his thumb along Dean's sharp cheekbone gently, reverently, until Dean relaxes beneath him once again. Dean's hand wraps around their dicks again too, and they start to thrust once more. Both of them are already close, so they pick up the pace a little bit, an obscene, wet squelching sound filling the silence of the room from the lotion slicking up their cocks.

                Castiel's hand resting on the side of Dean's face travels down a bit, and comes to rest on the side of Dean's neck. Cas presses his thumb gently to Dean's Adam's apple, applying a little bit of pressure, just so he can feel the way Dean swallows convulsively, reveling in the way Dean's breath hitches from the pressure on his throat. His heart is slamming, and making the vein on the side of his neck flutter wildly. Castiel basks in the feeling of it, the feeling of Dean so _alive_ and full of ecstasy beneath him, both of them moving together, the bed creaking a little as they thrust harder and harder.

                Castiel leans down and trails kisses along Dean's sharp jaw, his head tilted back a little with Castiel's hand at his neck. It's not a threatening hand, and Dean isn't scared right now, not anymore. The hand is comforting. It's there as a request for Dean to trust Castiel, and as far as Cas can tell, Dean is allowing that to happen. He's trusting Cas right now, to not hurt him, to only bring him pleasure, to carry them both over that edge together.

                "Beautiful," Castiel murmurs breathlessly into the sweaty skin of Dean's neck, nipping there gently and making Dean's breath hitch again, his throat vibrating a little with a deep moan. It's the only word that Castiel can think of right now to describe Dean. He's beautiful this way, as he comes apart beneath Cas, submitting so willingly. Dean's free hand winds around and grabs Castiel's ass, pulling him down into each thrust, silently urging for him to go faster. And so Castiel complies.

                He's already close, his balls coiling up and getting ready to burst, so the moment he starts thrusting faster, it tips him over the edge. His whole body stutters and he lets out a choked off groan of pleasure as that white hot release bursts through him. His come splashes across Dean's bare stomach, dick twitching as he rides out his orgasm. Dean thrusts only two more times before his back arches off the bed, and he lets out a hoarse gasp as he spills his own release across his chest, his come mixing with Castiel's there. Cas can't see it, but he imagines that it's really beautiful, their come soaking into Dean's skin together. Maybe that's a weird thought, but he doesn't care. He's too blissed out.

                He collapses on top of Dean, both of them panting hoarsely, their hands still pumping their dicks slightly as they pulse in the aftershocks. Dean's head collapses back into the pillows, his heart pounding in his chest, and Castiel lays on top of him shamelessly, probably crushing him a bit, but right now he doesn't care. He can feel Dean's pulse against his own chest, and his own heart is beating just as fast, head spinning with the intensity of the orgasm.

                They lay there just breathing for a long moment, finally letting go of their dicks between them, melting into the bed and catching their breath. When they finally have the mental capacity to move again, they still don't get up. Dean's arm come up and winds around Castiel's neck, and Cas lifts his head a little so he can look down at the shadow of Dean's face in the darkness. Dean cranes his neck up and steals a kiss from Castiel, gentle and slow, not filled with the urgency of arousal from before. They share a few lazy kisses before Dean finally lets out a shaky sigh, and Cas realizes that once again, Dean is trembling a little.

                "Are you okay?" he asks, and belatedly notices that his hand is still around Dean's neck. He regrettably removes it, sliding it to the back of Dean's head and carding his fingers gently through his hair. He feels goose bumps rise on Dean's neck as he does it, and he smiles despite his concern.

                Dean nods in the darkness. "Yeah," he breathes, "'M okay. Just tired. That was awesome."

                Cas chuckles a little. "We should probably go to bed," he says, "We have school in the morning."

                Dean groans, thumping his head back into the pillows childishly. "I don't wanna go."

                Cas smiles, patting his cheek. "You have to," he says, "School is important."

                He can't see it, but he knows that Dean is rolling his eyes. "You sound like Ellen."

                "Bobby's wife?"

                Dean nods. "She's always lecturing me about doing my homework and getting good grades and shit."

                Cas smiles a little. "She sounds like a smart woman."

                Dean hums a little, but says nothing more, shifting just a bit. They both grimace at the sticky wetness trapped between them from the come still soaking into their skin. Castiel leans to the side and grabs his boxers from the floor, quickly mopping up the mess, and then pulling Dean up from the bed. "I think I have an extra toothbrush here somewhere," he says.

                Dean reaches down and snatches up his boxers and his t-shirt from the floor, pulling them on really quick before he steps into the light. Cas doesn't pay it much mind. There's obviously something there that Dean isn't ready to show him, and Castiel will respect that. He forgoes his own boxers and just pulls on his sweatpants without underwear, leaving his shirt off for now. It's more comfortable to sleep shirtless anyway, even in this cold house. The bedroom has warmed up considerably because of all the candles. Dean was right.

                They wander to the bathroom and brush their teeth before bed. Dean laughs at how messy both their hair is, sticking up every which way like true sex hair. Castiel reaches up and tries to smooth his down a bit, but then Dean just tousles it up again, mumbling through his mouthful of toothpaste that he likes Cas's hair all messed up better, that it looks hot. Castiel blushes a bit, and Dean grins, a little bit of toothpaste dripping down his chin, and he comes up behind Cas, wrapping one arm around his bare stomach and resting his chin on his shoulder as they brush their teeth.

                Castiel is overcome with a rush of fluttering in his stomach. He never thought something like domesticity could make him feel so warm inside, but it does. He and Dean, standing here brushing their teeth right after sex together, getting ready for bed. Such a mundane activity has never been more exciting to Castiel, and he leans into Dean's touch for a moment before they have to pull apart to spit toothpaste out into the sink.

                When they finally climb back into bed, Cas blows out all the candles, leaving the room shrouded in complete darkness, save for the tiny bit of light coming through the window from the streetlamp outside. Immediately, Castiel tucks himself around Dean, spooning him from behind, Dean's back to his chest and Castiel's nose buried in the crook of Dean's shoulder. He likes holding Dean like this. It's a new side of Dean he's never seen before. He's seen many sides of Dean, from the terrifying bully he once was, to the angry savior avenging Castiel, to the tender lover. But he's never seen Dean allow himself to be vulnerable. And maybe being the little spoon isn't exactly _vulnerable_ , but it feels that way to Cas, and so he revels in it. It feels good to be able to hold Dean, and run his fingertips up and down Dean's forearm, breathe in Dean's scent, feel the warmth of his muscular back right there.

                They're the same size really, but when Dean lets himself be held, it somehow makes Dean seem smaller. It's one of Castiel's favorite things already. He traces Dean's arm and chest with his fingers, feeling the bump of scars, and the roughness of the Ace bandage still wrapped tightly around his forearm. Castiel lays there for a long time mapping out the different textures he's become so addicted to on Dean's skin, and nearly a half an hour later when Castiel is just beginning to drift off to sleep, when they haven't said a word and yet have been completely comfortable, Cas suddenly feels something wet drip on his forearm under Dean's head.

                His eyes fall open again, and he crinkles his brow in confusion. Is there a leak? He twitches a little when another warm, wet drop of water lands on his arm, and then another, and it's only when he hears a tiny sniffle that he realizes Dean is crying. _No,_ Castiel thinks, his heart shattering in his chest inexplicably, _no, no, no_ , he _hates_ when people cry. He _hates_ when people are in pain. And the fact that this is _Dean_ crying right now makes it even worse. And _why_ is Dean crying?

                Cas shifts a little, and feels Dean stiffen just a bit, another tear drop landing on Cas's arm. Cas doesn't know what to _do_. Dean doesn't seem like the type of person who would willingly talk about his problems, that much is for sure. So Castiel doesn't say anything. He just wraps his arm tighter around Dean's middle, holding him firmly so that he won't break apart. Cas leans forward and places a lingering kiss to the base of Dean's neck, and Dean holds his breath for a moment before relaxing.

                And with that, Castiel buries his face in Dean's neck again, his lips right near his ear.

                "Dean?" he asks quietly, and it almost feels wrong to say anything when they've been silent for the past half hour, and they're both ready to sleep. But still, Dean twitches a little.

                "Yeah?" he replies, and his voice is barely a whisper, although he successfully hides the fact that he's crying.

                Cas wracks his mind for any way he can think of to make Dean feel better, because he _really_ doesn't want Dean to be crying right now. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want Dean to be hurting.

                "Will you tell me more about the Impala?" is the only thing Castiel can think to ask about that will make Dean feel better. He's inexplicably determined to fix this beautifully broken boy.

                His heart soars when Dean lets out a small huff of laughter, and then pauses for a moment to swallow back his tears. Castiel wonders if Dean knows that Cas knows he's crying. Dean probably thinks he's doing a good job of hiding it. "Okay," Dean finally replies, his body relaxing a bit, and Castiel smiles into the skin of his neck, letting his eyes slip closed again as Dean's rough voice starts to describe the way the car feels when it's rolling down the highway, like riding a horse with four walls, safe and enclosed and exhilarating. He listens to that burnt whisky texture of Dean's voice describe the growl of the engine like a thousand angry tigers, the way the tires hum soothingly on the road, the way the steering wheel is soft and worn with the impressions of where Dean and his father both always grip it when they drive.

                Castiel falls asleep to the sound of Dean's voice, smiling even as he drifts off because Dean's voice is like smoked molasses and fire-roasted honeycombs, and everything sweet and harsh mixed together. It's the most beautiful sound Cas has ever heard, and this is a very, _very_ good way to fall asleep.

 

*       *       *

 

                The next afternoon, Castiel finds himself standing outside of Cara Roberts' office again at school, troubled, clutching the straps of his backpack. School has just let out, and he has plans to meet Dean at Hautley's Bend in an hour just to hang out. He's already excited to see Dean again, even though it hasn't even been more than a day. But he's also filled with dread, and maybe a bit of sorrow, because Dean is clearly in pain, and Castiel has no idea how to stop it.

                He's a healer. He likes to help people. He likes to fix people. It's what he does. It's why he lets people beat up on him all the time. Not only for the fact that he doesn't like to hurt people, but he allows himself to act as a receptacle for people's pain. If they need to hurt him to feel better, then who is he to stand in their way?

                But Dean clearly doesn't want to hurt him anymore. And Dean is in so much profound pain himself.

                _God_ , Castiel hates feeling this helpless.

                He lifts one hand and knocks hesitantly on Cara's door a couple times, instantly hearing her voice inside calling for him to come in. He steps inside the office, eyeing the beaded pillows on the couch and the fish tank full of the little underwater frogs, and he immediately feels less on-edge. Cara glances up from her computer and flashes him a huge smile.

                "Castiel! Good to see you!" she says, nodding towards the couch, "Grab a seat."

                Castiel smiles slightly at her. "Hello Cara," he greets, sinking down on the couch, not even bothering to take his backpack off since he won't be here for very long. He still has to run home and check on Anna before he goes to Hautley's Bend.

                "What brings you in today?" she asks, swiveling around in her chair, tossing a stress ball back and forth between her hands. It's in the shape of a frog. Cara has a thing for frogs, apparently.

                Castiel chews on his lip for a moment, not really sure where to begin. The last time he was here speaking to Cara, he and Dean weren't seeing each other, and Dean was still his bully. They hadn't even shared a real _smile_ yet. And now he and Dean are sharing a bed.

                "Um..." he says, licking his lips, and then he sighs a little, "I'm seeing Dean Winchester."

                She nods a little, a tiny smile gracing her lips. "I saw that coming," she says, tossing the frog stress ball to him. Castiel catches it and fiddles with it in his hands for a moment before tossing it back with a small chuckle.

                "It's okay, right?" he asks, looking up at her, "I mean, to like him as much as I do? It's okay?"

                She shrugs a little, tossing him the stress ball again. "Does it feel okay to you?"

                Castiel nods. "Yes," he replies without hesitation, "It feels amazing."

                She smiles, holding up her hands so he can toss the frog back. "Then it's okay, in my opinion," she replies, "The only thing that matters is that you're happy, safe, and secure. Are you?"

                Cas swallows hard and hesitates before nodding.

                She narrows her eyes at him. "Are you sure?" she asks, noting his hesitation.

                Castiel rubs his hands together, biting his lip. "I'm absolutely positive that Dean is everything I'd hoped he would be, and more," he says, "There's no doubt about that. But..."

                Cara cocks her head a little. "But?"

                Cas looks up at her, accepting the stress ball frog when she throws it back, and picking at its eyeball with his thumbnail. "Cara...there's something wrong with him," he says finally.

                Her forehead crinkles in confusion. "What do you mean? He's not still bullying you, is he?"

                Castiel shakes his head. "No, nothing like that," he replies, "It's just...there's something wrong with _him_. And I don't know how to help him. He's afraid of something, and he's hiding something. Something big. He always claims he's okay, but he cries when he thinks no one can see him."

                Cara's face creases with sympathy, even as a tiny smile touches her lips. "You really care about him, don't you?" she says.

                Castiel blushes a little, looking down at the frog in his hands, squeezing it a couple times. His forearm is a little sore from stroking his and Dean's dicks together in bed last night. "Yes, I really care about him. A lot," he replies, "And I want to help him. I just don't know how, when there's clearly something very wrong."

                Cara pauses for a moment, before pulling in a breath and leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees and regarding Castiel seriously. "I want you to be perfectly honest for a moment," she says, waiting until Castiel gives a nod of affirmative before continuing, "Are you sure you _yourself_ are alright? You need to make sure you're alright before you go off and try to save the world."

                Cas huffs a little breath, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He gives a little shrug. "Honestly? No, I'm not completely alright. No one ever is, in my opinion," he says, and her face softens a bit, "But...in regards to Dean? I don't know...I just woke up one day and I wasn't scared of him anymore. I don't think I ever truly _feared_ him actually. Not completely...And that's got to say something about him, right? The fact that he's never given me a bad vibe?" Cara nods a bit, and Castiel continues. "I usually have reliable instincts about people, and Dean has always just seemed... _good_ , despite everything."

                She hums a bit in agreement. "Well, as long as you're okay in regards to Dean, then I'd say you can do everything you can to be there for him, and if he decides to open up about whatever it is that's troubling him, you'll be available to open up to."

                Castiel nods a bit, fiddling with the stress ball for a moment. He thinks about Nathan Hautley, and how Elsa gave him so many chances after he committed adultery. How Elsa took him back, even after Nathan was unfaithful. It ended in tragedy, those chances. But do all second chances end that way? This is the problem Castiel has with the world, and with people. It's always a gamble, always a leap of faith. But with Dean, he has the utmost faith. No, he's not worried about Dean reverting back to his old ways. Castiel isn't worried about _himself_. He's worried about how Dean feels, deep inside. He's worried about the demons that taunt Dean. He's worried about how often Dean cries himself to sleep at night.

                He looks up at Cara. "Do you think people deserve second chances?" he asks, and she sits back in her chair, pursing her lips and pondering that.

                "I guess it all depends on what they did to betray the first chance," she says, and Cas smiles a little, because Cara is so smart, a comforting guru in here with her frogs and beaded pillows and family photos.

                Cas lowers his eyes again, pausing for a moment before sighing, hugging himself. "What should I do?" he asks her, "About Dean? How do I help him?"

                She nods a little, subtly, tapping her lips with her fingers. "Castiel, you're a smart boy," she says, "I can see that. So you must know that the only way you can save someone is if they _want_ to be saved. Or if they're _willing_.

                Castiel's face crumples and he collapses back into the couch, exasperated. "Then what am I supposed to do?" he asks.

                Cara smiles at him, gently, leaning forward again in her chair. "All you _can_ do," she replies simply, " _Be_ there. Be there when he decides he wants to be saved."

                Castiel ponders that for a long moment. He was never planning on going anywhere anyway, so he supposes that will be easy. But it still kills him inside. Because until Dean decides he wants help, until he decides he wants to open up to Castiel about why he can't take his shirt off in the light, or why he can't let Castiel touch him without being terrified, or why he has Band-Aids on his arm, or why he cries himself to sleep at night, all Castiel can do is wait. All he can do is sit here and continue to be helpless, watching from the sidelines while Dean self-destructs.

                And maybe he's being a little dramatic. All he really has in the way of evidence that Dean is suffering are feelings and instincts, really. But somehow, he just _knows_. He knows a lost soul when he sees one. And he can't just let this go.

                He and Cara chat for a little while longer, and he thanks her for her time. She requests that he come back to see her sooner the next time around, and Castiel promises that he will before stepping out of the office, perhaps more troubled than when he entered it, because he's just starting to realize how helpless he really is when it comes to Dean.

                He chews his lip as he wanders out of the main office and into the hallway. There are only a few students out here. Most have already caught their buses home or have left the building to walk. There's a student council club down the hallway hanging a banner across the ceiling advertising for the school dance coming up in a couple months, and a few stragglers at their lockers or just hanging out in the hallway and chatting with their friends.

                Castiel steps out of the office and turns to walk down the hall towards the back doors. He stops dead in his tracks when he looks up and instantly locks eyes with Alastair. His heart freezes over like the next Ice Age and he feels his lungs constrict.

                Al is leaning casually against the wall across from the main office, only about ten or so feet away from Castiel, hands tucked casually in his pockets. But that's not what stops Cas in his tracks. What stops him is the look on Alastair's face.

                Usually, Al has a snide grin on his face, all sharp teeth and bad breath and raspy laughter like a hyena ready to strike. But right now...Alastair is _glaring_. And it's one of the most terrifying expressions Castiel has ever seen, like a rattlesnake that's just been stepped on. Like a rabid dog that's just been set on fire. The amount of _hatred_ and _malice_ in Alastair's eyes is enough to turn Castiel's bones to dust, and he feels a wave of chills wash over him, prickling his skin with goose bumps, nausea churning low in his gut at the sheer animalistic _rage_ he sees on Alastair's face.

                They only lock eyes for several seconds before Castiel can't handle to be on the receiving end of that glare anymore, and he looks away, swallowing past the newly formed lump in his throat. He takes one last quick peek up at Al again, almost like he's checking to see if Alastair is actually standing there, or if Cas is just imagining this. Castiel has had nightmares like this before, being trapped in the terrifying gaze of a predator.

                And frankly, with that look in Alastair's eyes, Castiel feels disconcertingly like prey.

                Taking one last glance at Alastair again, feeling that skin-smoldering glare burning holes in his back with every step he takes, Castiel swallows hard and walks away. Away from the main office, away from the school, and away from that horrible glare. For his entire suddenly-terrified walk through the woods to his house, he checks over his shoulder constantly, always fully expecting to see an animal stalking him, ready to strike. Ready to tear him to shreds.


	22. Like Any Other Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (very late) birthday Angi <3

_The dream begins as it always does. It's dark, and cold, and Castiel is so fucking lonely he can barely breathe._

_No, scratch that. He_ actually _can't breathe._

 _There's a rope around his neck, constricting like a snake, tighter and tighter, cutting off his air, his blood building up pressure in his head with no room to flow. Strange little gagging sounds are coming out of his throat and he can practically_ feel _how blue his lips are._

_Deep down, he knows this story. This is what it's like to die, hanging from a tree by a rope around your neck. Of all the ways to die, Castiel thinks, this one wouldn't be one of his first choices._

_But then, if someone is so overcome with sadness, does it really matter how much it hurts when eventually it'll just be...over? Maybe that's all that Elsa Hautley really cared about. An end to her suffering, her grief, over her unfaithful husband._

_Either way, this is really fucking unpleasant._

_Castiel jolts awake from the dream with a hoarse, choking gasp, clawing at his throat so violently to get the phantom ropes away that he leaves fingernail marks on his pale skin. And he ponders to himself, as he lies there gasping and sweating, staring up at his ceiling in the middle of the night, how fucking awful it would be to grow so lonely that your only companion is a rope and a tree in the dark, dark woods._

*       *       *

 

                People are all made up of different pieces and parts, all laced together by skin and sinew, a frankly ridiculous structure given all the things in the world that could so easily break it. A bullet, a crash, a fire - it takes so little to break the human body.

                And human emotions are even more fragile. A single word, a _whisper_ , is enough to shatter human emotions, given the right context. It takes so little to hurt someone so much.

                Dean has never taken the time to really consider whether he's broken. How does one know if they're broken? Everyone comes with at least a little bit of self-awareness, so shouldn't Dean be able to tell whether or not he's truly broken? Does he measure it by how numb he feels inside? Does he measure it by how much he _doesn't_ feel?

                At this rate he's going to become a sociopath.

                He's got two things in his life holding him together these days: Sammy, and Castiel. And he truly believes that when you meet someone, they become a part of you, no matter how brief the interaction. Everyone you meet changes you, just a little bit. You start out as an empty beer can, whole and solid, and then life sticks you  on the proverbial fencepost and everyone you meet is just another bullet punching holes in you, chipping little bits of you away.

                And while Dean can't even fathom how he feels inside, whether it be numb or over-stimulated to the core, he does know one thing.

                He's dreaming.

                He's floating through life on the edge of a dream. He's living on the borderline between tragedy and ecstasy. He's right in the center, and on one side, there are mountains of gruesome events, from Alastair, to The Accident, to alcoholism...and on the other side, there's Castiel, and Sam, and pie, obviously.

                His life is like one big fucking contradiction of light and dark.

                That's Rail Pass for you; just its own little world where good meets bad and there's really no in-between.

                That's how Dean feels right now, in the forefront of his mind. He's living a surreal dream in which he's not sure whether it's safe to be happy with how things are going with Castiel, because at any moment, the darkness could seep in and ruin that too. He's constantly at war with the shadows in his life, following him around, biting at his heels, burning holes in his forearm. Not letting him sleep.

                And Dean's afraid that if he wishes all the bad away, all the good will disappear too, like the universe doesn't want him to be _too_ happy. The dark and the light in his life are too closely related. And it's just bullshit. It's a disease.

                He's filled to the brim with discomfort as he makes his way towards The Docks after school the next day. He has plans with Castiel later, as usual, but Cas works until seven at Bobby's shop, and Dean promised Crowley that he'd start spending more time with him. Crowley hadn't really given him a chance to refuse when he'd told Dean to meet him at The Docks this afternoon, but Dean has to keep reminding himself that he's just going to grab Crowley and they'll head off together to hang out somewhere else, without Gordon and Zach.

                Dean is actually _praying_ that Alastair won't be at The Docks too when he walks up. He's seen Al a couple times in the halls at school (before Dean promptly turned and headed the other direction, that is) but, for the most part, Alastair has been pretty absent lately. It's messing with Dean's head a little. Every time he thinks he's healing, thinks he's getting over everything that happened at Ghost Town two months ago, he'll catch a glimpse of Al walking into a classroom or buying a sandwich in the cafeteria, and it will all just come flooding back. It's exhausting.

                In turn, Dean has been _drowning_ himself in Castiel, stealing kisses from him when he catches him in the hallway, hanging out with him at Hautley's Bend, sleeping over at his ice cold house, warm and tangled together under the covers in Castiel's bed, listening to him breathe. Castiel Novak is an addiction, and for once it's one of those addictions that Dean doesn't constantly hate himself for.

                Although...maybe he hates himself just a little bit for everything he did to Castiel in the past. But Cas keeps insisting that he's forgiven him. It still doesn't feel like Dean has made up for what he did to Castiel last semester, but what more is he supposed to do?

                He tucks his hands tightly in the pockets of his leather jacket, casting a glower up to the slate-grey sky where there are little dandruff-sized flakes of snow beginning to fall. He's about ready for spring to be here. Winter on the East coast is wet, and cold, and all around unpleasant. His boots crunch over stray bits of asphalt in the crumbling parking lot as he turns the corner and makes his way towards The Docks.

                He chances a peek and is relieved to find that it's only Crowley sitting there, sucking on a cigarette in a very _British_ way that only Crowley can manage. Gordon, Zach, and, most importantly, Alastair, are nowhere to be seen. Dean wonders fleetingly if they still go out to Ghost Town, and a chill passes over him that's more than just the cold. He wonders how the hell Alastair can even go out there into that train car and pretend everything is normal when Dean's blood stain is still permanently soaked into the floor. Then again, how does Al continue to give Dean little smiles and winks at school like he didn't irrevocably fuck up Dean's head not two months ago?

                Dean grits his teeth and wishes that he remembered to grab his cigarettes this morning before he left for school. It's probably better that he didn't - he'd be too tempted to put one out on his arm right in front of Crowley. It's funny - he still likes Crowley, and he still considers Crowley his best friend (with the exception of Sam and Castiel, although both of them are different from Crowley), but every time Dean hangs out with the Brit, it's like dragging himself back to last semester. Dean doesn't know how much he's changed since a few months ago, but it's almost like last semester, that was the _old Dean_ , and now it's the _new Dean_ , and every time he goes and hangs out with Crowley, it's like reverting back to his old ways.

                He likes Crowley, but hanging out with him makes Dean feel like shit, because when Dean used to spend all his free time with Crowley and the others, he _was_ shit. Plus, Crowley tends to bring up Gordon, Zach, and Alastair in casual conversation too much, and it just reminds Dean of everything he wishes so badly that he could forget.

                He briefly considers turning around and fleeing in the other direction, since he's clearly in a _mood_ , but Crowley glances up and spots him, giving him a little dainty wave that actually makes Dean snort a laugh. Maybe this won't be so bad after all. He salutes Crowley in return and closes the distance between himself and The Docks, plunking down on one of the boulders closest to the little river and the bridge. The river has a thick layer of ice over it, but Dean can still hear water running under the freeze.

                "You look like shit, you know," Crowley says by way of greeting, taking another drag on his smoke. Dean doesn't even bother to glare at him, just settles into the boulder and yawns, pinching the bridge of his nose. He _feels_ like shit - it probably shows on his face. He only really feels alive when he's with Castiel.

                Crowley studies him for a moment, and then fishes in his pea coat and pulls out a bottle. Dean recognizes it immediately as Glencraig whiskey, and he makes a gagging sound as Crowley holds it out to him. He's a whiskey guy, but Glencraig is retched. "How the hell do you _enjoy_ that shit?"

                Crowley raises his eyebrows. "This is fine liquid bliss, my friend," he replies, "Don't insult it."

                Dean rolls his eyes. "It tastes like battery acid dude."

                Crowley just shrugs and opens the bottle, taking a small swallow. "You've settled for the cheaper things in life," he says, gritting his teeth as the whiskey slides down his throat, "Glencraig is a delicacy."

                "Well you just enjoy yourself, then," Dean snorts, blowing hot air into his hands and rubbing them together. Fuck it's cold. Dean's mind immediately wanders to his new favorite way to warm up, and it involves soft lips, blue eyes, and miles of pale skin. He finds himself blushing a little before Crowley clears his throat and snaps him out of his daydream. Dean shifts a little on the boulder and uses the numb ache in his ass from the hard surface to distract himself.

                "What's going on in that angsty little head of yours lately Dean?" Crowley asks, studying his friend. Dean shoots him a glare, and Crowley combats it by offering up a cigarette. Dean accepts it and catches the lighter when Crowley tosses it to him.

                "'M fine," Dean mutters around the smoke, cupping his hands around it to light it up. The first drag is heavenly, even if it's a little dry. Crowley doesn't smoke menthols like Dean does.

                "You're not," Crowley argues, giving Dean a little smile. Somehow, Crowley's smiles always look like he's up to something. "Have you forgotten that I've known you since freshman year? Which means I know that there's something awry in that troubled little brain."

                Dean spits once, not necessarily trying to avoid Crowley's shoes. Crowley scoots his feet out of the line of fire, wrinkling his nose at the gob of saliva quickly freezing on the pavement. Dean doesn't say anything in response, just takes another drag and enjoys the way the nicotine settles the shaking in his hands from withdrawal. Crowley studies him for a moment before snorting and taking another sip of Glencraig.

                "It's alright, you don't have to tell me," he says, "But I'm here if you ever need a chat."

                Dean snorts. "Yeah okay Dr. Phil, stow the touchy feely crap."

                Crowley fixes him with an amused look as he takes another sip of Glencraig. Crowley never gulps or takes a swig. It's always a delicate little sip, like he's an old granny drinking tea instead of a high school student sneaking alcohol in the parking lot.

                Right on cue, Victor appears at the back corner of the school on his security rounds, and Crowley tucks his bottle down behind one of the rocks to it isn't spotted. Victor glances their way, and as Dean blows out a lungful of smoke into the icy air, he raises one hand and gives a single companionable wave. He's not entirely sure that Victor likes him very much, what with all the fighting Dean did last semester, and the reputation he has, but it doesn't hurt to be nice to the guy. Victor's just doing his job.

                Henriksen gives Dean a nod in return, and for some reason that makes Dean feel good. He's always assumed that the people who have encountered him at his worst will never realize that Dean isn't always like that. He's always assumed that most people in this school hate him, or fear him. And frankly, most of them do. But Victor Henriksen might be different. Maybe Victor doesn't hate him after all. Dean gives a small smile, and then looks away, taking another drag on his smoke and watching the occasional snowflake drift down from the grey sky.

                "How's your delicate little flower?" Crowley asks suddenly, breaking the silence, his brown eyes fixated on Victor until the security guard rounds the corner of the building and disappears from sight. Crowley lifts the Glencraig again and takes another sip.

                "Cas?" Dean asks, unsure what Crowley is referring to. Crowley grins at him mischievously, holding out the Glencraig once more as an offering. He's always hated drinking alone. Dean rolls his eyes and accepts the whiskey finally, taking a swig of it and wincing at it goes down, coughing at the horrible flavor on the back of his tongue.

                "Yes. How's that little affair going?" Crowley asks, accepting the bottle back when Dean hands it over.

                Dean rolls his eyes. "He's not a _delicate little flower_ Crowley," he says, his voice a little strained as he grits his teeth against the flavor of the Glencraig, "He's actually pretty strong." Crowley fixes Dean with a look that says he doesn't believe him, but Dean's mind immediately jumps to how easily Castiel can flip him over in bed and pin him down, how dominant Cas sometimes gets when they're kissing and doing _other_ things. Before he knows it, he's blushing again, and he reaches for the whiskey once more so he doesn't pop a boner right here. God, it's like he's fourteen again.

                "He didn't appear as such when we fed him his own teeth every other day last semester," Crowley points out, waiting until Dean is taking a drink of the whiskey before saying it because he knows it'll piss Dean off. And it does.

                Dean glares at Crowley, although it ends up as more of a grimace as he tries to not gag from the taste of the Glencraig. "Keep your fucking hands off him Crowley," Dean warns, coughing away the bitterness on his tongue.

                Crowley chuckles, taking the bottle back once more. "Down boy," he says, "I'm only stating facts. Novak seems a bit soft around the edges."

                Dean spits again, rolling his eyes. "Just 'cause Cas doesn't like to fight doesn't mean he _can't_. He just doesn't like to hurt people."

                Crowley raises his eyebrows with a little hum. "I suppose that's why he neglects to defend himself?" he asks, a little disbelieving, "How very noble of him."

                Dean fixes him with a look, and Crowley raises his hands in surrender.

                "What?" he says, handing Dean another cigarette as Dean flicks the butt of his first one aside, "I'm simply stating that it's human nature for people to hurt each other. If he's really so _strong_ , he should at the very least prove it."

                Dean glares at him. "Why are we even talking about this?"

                Crowley snorts, fishing in his pocket and tossing Dean the lighter again so he can light up his second cigarette. "I suppose I'm just curious as to what it is about the Novak boy that's gotten your furries so coiled. He can't be that spectacular of a lay."

                Normally, Dean would give anyone else a black eye for saying half of what Crowley is saying right now, but this is _Crowley_. He loves to goad people on, loves being a dick. It's part of the reason why he's Dean's best friend. But it doesn't mean Dean has to like him all the time. And right now, he's pissing Dean off, because Dean is stupidly protective of Cas. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" he growls.

                Crowley laughs, his cheeks a little rosy as the Glencraig settles into his bones. "It's been said," he replies.

                They sit there for a few minutes in silence. Snow is beginning to fall a little harder, a flake here and there every several seconds. Dean imagines that the ground will be covered with it tomorrow. God he hates winter.

                "You gotta promise me something man," Dean says after a while, chewing on his lip and looking back at Crowley. Crowley raises his eyebrow, as if to say _go on_.

                "Just...promise me you'll leave Cas alone," he says, "I know you can't help yourself sometimes, but...don't mess with Cas anymore. The guy's been through hell." Dean thinks back to the conversation he had with Castiel the other night, when Cas confessed he was bullied a lot. An ache in Dean's chest forms at the thought of that, at how worthless Cas feels sometimes. He wonders about the scar on Castiel's stomach, wonders about what hellish things Castiel has been through. Dean can't help but wonder. And he can't help but feel guilty for contributing.

                Crowley snorts a little laugh as he looks at Dean. "You're ridiculously smitten, just so you're aware."

                Dean looks up at him, and then flushes a little, rolling his eyes but not saying anything in reply.

                Crowley just chuckles again and scuffs his shoe on the ground. "Don't worry, I'll not lay a finger on your precious little morsel, cross my heart."

                Dean accepts the whiskey when Crowley hands it back to him, but says nothing more on the subject. He knows he's being a little ridiculous, worrying so much, being so paranoid, so protective. But there just something about Cas. He's special. More than anything, Dean just wants to save this guy. And he's not even sure a strong guy like Castiel even _needs_ saving, but in Dean's opinion, everyone needs a little saving. It's either that, or Castiel is the most well-balanced human being on the _planet_ , barring a few self-esteem issues here and there from being picked on so much.

                Dean envies him sometimes. It used to make Dean mad, how Castiel is so strong and brave, while Dean is over here falling apart at the seams. Beating up Castiel for that fact used to make him feel better. But now, Dean's just jealous and proud all at once, and it's messing with his head. But all he knows, is that Castiel is a rare gem in this shitty little town, and Dean doesn't want that to change. He never wants that to change. Cas is perfect.

                He and Crowley hang out for a couple more hours there at The Docks, freezing their asses off as the afternoon drags into evening and the snow starts to fall a little more heavily. They watch as students leave their after-school clubs in groups and wander into the woods or out towards the front parking lots to be picked up by their parents. Crowley pokes fun at a few of them for how they're dressed or the way they're walking, which is something that the Dean of old would have once joined in on. But now, he just sits there silently and listens to Crowley make fun of people behind their backs.

                Despite the low, boiling sick feeling Dean gets every time he hangs out with Crowley now, like the longer he hangs out with his old friends, the more he loses himself and reverts back to the Dean he used to be, Crowley makes him laugh genuinely several times. It's good to see Crowley again. Sometimes Dean forgets that the Brit is actually hilarious, and witty, and has a way of reading Dean's body language and distracting him from his own head, even if that distraction consists of more Glencraig or another cigarette.

                The dull, buried urge to roll up his sleeve and press the tip of his cigarette to his bare, unmarred flesh fades into the background and is replaced by an ache in his abs from laughing so hard at a story Crowley tells of someone farting really loud in his ceramics class and then pretending it was the pottery wheel. Victor walks by a few more times on his rounds, and then they watch him leave for the day in his big black truck parked in the back corner of the lot near the dumpsters and the theatre entrance.

                It's a weird day, Dean decides. Not particularly unusual, but he _himself_ feels weird inside, like he can't touch anything around him, like he's separate from it all. Like he's coated in a layer of protective goo that's insulating him from the world and he's not quite a part of it. He has no idea where this feeling is coming from, but it's been happening more and more recently, like Dean is becoming comfortably numb. There's still that raging thundercloud of agony roaring deep inside him, made up of loss, trauma, pain, and an all around absence of any self worth, but as Dean sits here with Crowley, chatting aimlessly and smoking and drinking, he feels a little like he's floating.

                He knows deep down, somewhere where he won't acknowledge, that this feeling could very well be depression. Why he's depressed, he doesn't know. Everybody has a load of shit on their plate to deal with, Dean's no different. He's nothing special, so why does he deserve to be a big baby about it? Why is he so weak that he's sitting here floating in a depressed state of mind while everyone else around him is just _handling_ it, without the pathetic need to burn holes in their arms? He's beginning to realize that this foul mood he finds himself in day after day isn't a new thing every morning, but rather the same state of lowness that's carrying from one day to the next like a little cloud following him around.

                Castiel is like his umbrella, stupid metaphors be damned. Being with Cas is like walking out of a damp, claustrophobic basement and into a fresh, spring garden. He's like milk and honey and clouds and really clean car engine parts and that dust on the wings of moths. He's like being wrapped up in everything good, and for a while, Dean can just... _forget_. He can lick over the salty skin of Castiel's quivering stomach, and taste the white wine and dew of his lips, and run his fingers through that silky wild hair, and he can _forget_. He can forget for a while that's he's broken, that his puppet strings are fraying and his stitching is coming apart at the seams. He can forget that without Castiel, he doesn't mean anything.

                Dean hugs his leather jacket around himself tighter as snowflakes start to stick to his spiky hair. He wiggles his toes in his boots, warming them slightly as he laughs at something Crowley says, trying to ignore the fact that he can't really feel anything within himself apart from that surface amusement. He'd give anything just to burn himself right now, if only to make himself feel something.

                At one point, Crowley is rambling on - as he tends to do with a little bit of alcohol in his system - about nothing really in particular, and he brings up "something funny" that Alastair did a week ago. Dean tries not to react. He shouldn't feel the need to cringe or shiver at every mention of Al's name, but he can't help lowering his eyes and finding himself suddenly extraordinarily fascinated by the asphalt beneath his boots. Crowley senses his shift in behavior the moment he mentions Alastair, and stops talking for a moment, studying his friend.

                _Fuck_ , Dean needs to pull himself together.

                Crowley doesn't demand to know what happened though. He learned a while ago that Dean isn't going to talk about it, whatever _it_ is, that happened between he and Alastair. Instead, Dean raises his eyes again, and gives Crowley a _go on_ motion, and Crowley hesitantly finishes his story. Dean grits his teeth and listens, and tries not to let it show on his face the nausea that's churning lowly in his gut as he remembers phantom teeth sinking into the back of his shoulder.

                For the rest of the time they hang out, Crowley tells random stories here and there about funny or stupid shit that Alastair, Gordon, he, and Zach have been getting up to since Dean has stopped hanging out with them, like Crowley is updating Dean on the happenings in their friend circle. He mentions that Gordon and Zach are pissed at Dean for just up and ditching them for seemingly no reason. Dean wants to laugh at that, and puke at the same time. If they knew the real reason why Dean stopped hanging out with them, why Dean won't even set foot near Ghost Town, he wonders if they'd be so buddy-buddy with Alastair. Dean's half-inclined to think that they wouldn't even believe him if he tried to tell them what Alastair did. Al has a way of twisting people's brains around, making them believe anything he wants. He would no doubt win in convincing Gordon and Zach that Dean was lying.

                Crowley might believe Dean if Dean tried to tell him but...no. Dean won't do that. Hanging out with Crowley is simple. Bringing up shit that happened two months ago, shit that Dean should be _over_ by now, would just complicate the relationship he and Crowley have established.

                So he sits here, and he listens as Crowley tells him that Gordon and Zach are pissed, and that he suspects that Alastair has a bit of a crush on Dean based on how much Al talks about him ( _little does he know_ ), and that they all have been going out to Ghost Town and getting high and messing with Krissy Chambers' hair, and Barry Cook's glasses, and Ed and Harry's camera equipment from the school newspaper, without him.

                Dean sits there and listens to it all. And when it's finally time to leave, he's not even sure what he's feeling. Is he angry, hurt, sick, numb? There's something different about this day, something more raw that makes everything he feels that much more potent, and that much more confusing. He farewells Crowley, and wanders through the woods away from The Docks, hugging himself in the cold and squinting into the trees. He doesn't know why he always looks for that white-tailed deer when he passes through these trees, but maybe that deer is some kind of spirit. Maybe it'll help him, the way it helped Castiel the night he laid unconscious on the forest floor. Maybe it'll help Dean too.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel has been spending far too much time worrying lately. He never used to be like this. He never used to worry this much. But then again, never in the past has he had more _reasons_ to worry. He worries about Dean, obviously. That's first and foremost in his head, the constant, nagging worry about all the things Dean is trying to hide from him, all the things Castiel wants to do to help, if only he knew what was wrong.

                And he worries about leaving Rail Pass. In all the other places Castiel has lived, he's never really given much thought to when his parents would suddenly return and drag he and Anna away to the next town or city. He never grew attached to the places he lived, not until now. Sure, he was sad to leave that swing in the backyard of their house in Arizona, or those stray animals in the basement of his house in New York, but those were just _things_ that he misses, little pieces and parts of his life.

                Rail Pass is a _feeling_. Being here feels like home. It feels right. He has friends here, and a job, and more experiences than he can count, some good, some bad. He has more of a mother in Missouri than he's ever had in his life. He has Gabriel, and Charlie, and Kevin, and Dorothy, and their movie nights together in the "haven" of Castiel's cold living room. He has Pamela Barnes, the beautifully eccentric theatre teacher who waves at him in the hallway like he's an old friend. He has Bobby Singer, in all his grumpy, whiskey-warm glory. He has Mr. Wyatt in math class, always encouraging him, always believing in him when he's struggling with a particular equation or problem. He even has Victor Henriksen, who has a unique talent of expressing his concern for Castiel's wellbeing in the face of being the target of school bullies, while at the same time not making Castiel feel like a pathetic, weak little victim.

                And he has Dean. He has those little puffs of air Dean exhales over his neck as they're thrusting together. He has the deep rumble of Dean's laughter, and the smoked-maple growl of his voice. He has those scarred up hands, and those calloused palms, and those endearingly bowed legs, and that crazy, spiky dark hair. He even has all those secrets that Dean won't tell him, the secrets that Castiel knows one day he'll be able to help with. He has all of that, as hard as that is for him to believe.

                The point is that Castiel has a _life_ here. He's never really lived in a place where he's dug himself a little corner of belonging. He's never _belonged_ anywhere. And now, here he is, with a place in Rail Pass, Vermont. And he doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want his parents to return suddenly one day, as they've done many times in the past, and inform him that they're moving again.

                That would physically _hurt_ Castiel, to leave this place. It would physically _hurt_ Cas to leave his friends and the people he's connected with here. And it would be absolutely and inexplicably _agonizing_ to leave Dean. To leave the little flecks of golden-green in his eyes, or those sun-kissed freckles that pale in the winter light. To leave the sweat that drips down between Dean's shoulder blades when they're tangled together in Castiel's bed, and the feeling of full lips over every inch of his body.  

                And it isn't even the sex that's Castiel's favorite part. It's just _feeling_ Dean there, having him nearby. Knowing that he exists. Knowing that, in that moment, Dean is safe, and okay.

                So Castiel worries. He's sitting at work that night, behind the desk in Bobby's shop, folding up origami frogs for Cara Roberts (another person whom he'd be reluctant to say goodbye to upon moving away from Rail Pass), and he's worrying. Bobby isn't in the shop tonight. He, Ellen, and Jo left for a short family vacation, some distant great aunt's birthday or something, and so Castiel is in charge of closing the craft shop a little early while Bobby is away.

                Usually when Bobby is here, he doesn't talk very much, but the silence of his absence tonight is a little unbearable to Castiel. He can't stop his brain from whirling. He can't stop worrying about all the things he can't do anything about right now. There's no way he can push Dean into sharing his problems so that Castiel can help him. There's no way Castiel can prevent Naomi and Bartholomew from returning to Rail Pass and uprooting their lives once again. Any day now, they could return and completely eviscerate the life Cas has built for himself here in the last five or so months.  

                His shift at work goes by painfully slow because of all the worrying, and he can't seem to keep his eyes off the clock. Beneath all his worry, he's excited too, because Dean is coming over tonight just to hang out for a while, like they've been doing much more lately. It's Castiel's favorite part of the day, seeing Dean.

                There haven't been many customers in the shop tonight, which also irks Castiel because he doesn't have anyone to distract him, if even for a few moments. He's playing a little bit of music on his iPod to fill the silence, but every other song that pops up is one of Dean's songs that Dean put on there a couple months ago, and it only makes him think about everything he worries about even more. His distraction has caused him several paper cuts on his fingers so far.

                Gabriel, Charlie, and Kevin show up at Bobby's shop later in the night, though, and spend the last hour or so of Castiel's shift with him, telling him that they missed him and they were bored, so they decided to come in for a visit. It makes something tighten in Castiel's chest, like a deeply-buried urge to cry, because he knows if he is forced to move away from Vermont, he won't have his friends with him anymore, and there won't be surprise visits like this.

                But he forces those thoughts aside and talks and laughs with his friends for the rest of his shift, and plans out another movie night in Castiel's living room. Gabriel makes Cas promise not to invite Dean, since Gabe still really doesn't like the guy for everything Dean did last semester, and Castiel reluctantly agrees. He hopes one day soon, Gabriel will give Dean a chance. Dean made mistakes (a _lot_ of mistakes) last semester, and likely before that, but he's one of the most genuine people Cas has ever met. He just wishes Gabriel could see that.

                Having his friends there settles a layer of protective fog over his worries for now. He forgets for a while that all the things he has here in Rail Pass, all the friendships and connections and inside-jokes, could potentially be ripped out from under him as quick as a blink if Naomi and Bartholomew return. He's not even sure he cares about the divorce anymore. He just doesn't want to move again.

                When he finally closes the shop that night around seven, his friends laughing and chattering by his side as they exit the store, it's already snowing a bit outside. Castiel hugs himself in the cold, his breath appearing in clouds of fog in front of his face in the light of the streetlamps. He eyes his bike tethered to the post across the street, grimacing at the idea of riding home in this cold. It would help to clear his head a bit, but he's had about enough of the East coast winter for one lifetime. He's ready for sunshine and flowers and grass the color of Dean's eyes.

                He's lost in thought, so he doesn't immediately notice that his friends have stopped talking until he looks over and sees Gabe, Charlie, and Kevin all staring at something. Castiel's forehead crinkles and he follows their gazes, peering into the snowy darkness.

                His stomach nearly falls out of his ass when he spots Alastair there, leaning against the wall of the alleyway right beside Bobby's shop about a dozen yards away, smoking a cigarette and not even trying to hide himself in the shadows. Al is looking right past Castiel's friends, and is staring directly at Cas again, just like he's been doing at school the past couple days. Every time Castiel looks up at school, it's like Al is just there, watching him. No, correction: _glaring_ at him. Glaring at him in a way that makes Cas's blood run cold.

                He shivers a little bit, hugging his jacket tighter around his body, and he'd be lying to himself if he said he was just shivering from the cold. Alastair has a certain serpent-like way about him that makes Castiel feel like he needs to protect his throat, for fear that fangs are about to lash out and tear into his jugular.

                Gabriel glances back at Castiel, and then looks between Al and Cas a couple times before popping his eyebrows and whistling.

                "O- _kay_ ," he says, turning on a heel and patting Cas on the back once before leaning in with a whisper, "I think it's time to bounce out of creep-town, whaddaya say?"

                "Um, Cas?" Charlie asks, her keys jingling as she pulls them out of her pocket, eyeing Alastair with trepidation, "You want a ride?"

                Castiel stares at Alastair for just a few more seconds before tearing his eyes away, looking at his friends. All three of them look confused and a little scared, and he doesn't blame them. Cas can't think of anyone he'd rather run into _less_ than Alastair in the dark alone. Castiel is more scared of Al than he has ever been of any bully he's had in the past, even the bully who caused the scar on Castiel's stomach. He wonders if it's because he sees the way Dean reacts when Al is around. Dean, who seems like he's scared of no one, who can take on anything, who is one of the strongest people Castiel has ever met, is scared of Alastair. And that in itself scares Castiel. 

                "Yes, I would appreciate that," Cas replies to Charlie, clenching his fists in his pockets and turning away, allowing his friends to lead him towards Charlie's little red VW beetle parked on the curb. Castiel eyes his bike tethered to the lamp across the street, wishing Charlie's car was big enough to fit the bike in the trunk. But he opts to leave his bike there over night, crawling into the back seat of Charlie's car. His friends all squish into the small vehicle, and then Charlie wordlessly starts up the engine, heading down the street.

                "What was that all about?" Kevin asks, eyeing Alastair still standing there out the back window as the car pulls away. Castiel feels dread pooling low in his belly, and he looks out the back window at Alastair too.

                "I don't know," Cas replies, and he's telling the truth, although he has his suspicions about why Alastair hates him so much. This isn't the first time Al has been outside of his work. Last time, he was here with Gordon and they were smoking weed in the same alleyway. But tonight is different. Alastair is a threat, and he's making that perfectly clear.

                Castiel shivers and keeps his eyes on Alastair's silhouette out the back window until they turn and disappear around the corner. Al is watching after the car, and although it's too dark to make out his facial features, Castiel _knows_ that he's still glaring that terrible glare. The one that makes Cas feel like his bones are splintering inside him. The one that makes Cas want to run as far and as fast as possible.

                All at once he's incredibly grateful that his friends chose tonight to visit him at work. He doesn't want to think about what would have happened if Castiel had run into Alastair in the darkness while he was alone.

 

*       *       *

 

                Anna has elected to stay in the house tonight while Castiel has Dean over for dinner. It's alright with Cas, since he and Dean aren't really planning on doing anything sexual tonight. Dean mentioned that he has to get home sometime before midnight, because he doesn't want Sammy to be there alone for too long, and Sam can't stay at the Singer's house since they're out of town. Castiel _almost_ asks why Sam can't be at home alone with their father, but then he remembers the day Sam showed up at Hautley's Bend with a bloody nose, and he stops himself from bringing it up. Dean will tell him, when he's ready. That's what Cara said. Don't push, just be there when Dean decides he wants to talk about it.

                As usual, he's overjoyed to see Dean when he opens the door and finds Dean standing there on his front porch, freezing his ass off in the snow. Dean grins at him brightly, and it lights up his whole face, fresh bruises and all. Castiel smiles back, unable to really help it despite the fact that he's not one for smiling much, and then he reaches out, pulling Dean in by the lapels of his leather jacket, kissing him deeply. Dean wrestles his hands out of his pockets and settles them on Castiel's hips, pulling them flush together, smiling into the kiss, which sends a flutter of warmth through Cas's chest, sliding over his heart and causing it to beat twice as fast.

                They get to kiss for no more than ten seconds before Anna pops her head out of the kitchen down the hall and makes a dramatic barfing sound. Castiel pulls away from Dean to cast her an annoyed glance, and she grins defiantly, wearing a large, white chef hat that Castiel made her out of paper. Dean chuckles when he sees her.

                "You cooking for us tonight?" he asks, and Castiel feels a tingle in his stomach at the sound of Dean's voice as he speaks to Anna, like Dean is used to talking to children. His voice is softer, sweeter.

                "Yes I am," Anna declares proudly, giving a little bow and then disappearing back into the kitchen. Dean chuckles again and when Cas looks back at him, Dean's freckled cheeks and the tip of his nose are pink from the cold, and his eyes are sparkling happily like he's a businessman who just returned home from a long trip. Cas eyes the fresh bruise bleeding dark on Dean's jaw. He noticed it today at school, but he didn't ask. He isn't _going_ to ask.

                Dean sees him looking, and flinches almost unnoticeably when Castiel reaches up and trails his fingers gently over the bruise, willing it to heal. Dean's smile is a little more subdued this time. "You gonna kiss it better like before?" he murmurs, and Castiel huffs a little laugh before leaning in and pressing his lips gently to the bruise, savoring the feeling of day-old stubble on Dean's jaw.

                Dean leans to the side and captures Castiel's lips one more time in a slow, lingering kiss before pulling away and shivering, stepping the rest of the way into the house and nudging the front door shut with the heel of his boot.

                "How was work?" Dean asks, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. Castiel takes a brief moment to eye Dean up and down. He can't help but admire this beautiful boy. Dean is wearing his usual dark wash jeans with a plain black t-shirt and a solid navy blue flannel. His golden necklace sways and bumps against his sternum as he moves. Castiel suddenly feels very plain next to him, in his old, loose jeans and overly large Corpus Christi t-shirt, but he tries to shove those thoughts aside.

                "Slow," he replies honestly, taking Dean's hand and pulling him into the kitchen where Anna is busy throwing some kind of mushroom into a pot on the stove. Castiel suspects that Anna really has no idea what she's doing, but she insisted on cooking for them tonight, so he agreed.

                "Sit, sit, sit," she says, waving her free hand towards the kitchen table, and Dean snorts again, like Anna is the most entertaining little kid, and he and Castiel wander over and take a seat in the wooden chairs next to each other, watching Anna flit around at the stove.

                "What's on the menu tonight?" Dean asks her, and Anna glances back, grinning at him with stars in her eyes like Dean is some sort of celebrity. Castiel supposes that he _does_ talk about Dean a lot, and Anna has only encountered him a handful of times.  She must be excited to see whether Dean lives up to the god-like reputation Castiel has talked him up to be.

                "I don't really know what to call it," Anna admits as she stirs, "It doesn't have a name."

                Castiel cocks his head to the side. "You're just throwing random ingredients in there, aren't you?" he surmises, and Anna casts him a sheepish look.

                "Maybe," she replies, "But Missouri has been teaching me a lot about cooking, so I don't think it'll be too bad."

                "Well you invented it then, right?" Dean points out, "You should be the one to name it."

                Anna purses her lips, stopping her stirring for a moment as she thinks. Then, her face lights up. "Oobleck!" she replies, "Like that Dr. Suess book! Remember Cas? The one dad used to read to me sometimes?"

                Castiel huffs, shaking his head. "He read that to you _once_ ," he replies, "And he only read it because his name is in the title."

                Dean looks between the two of them. "What book?"

                Cas glances at him. " _Bartholomew and the Oobleck_ , by Dr. Suess," he replies, "Did you ever read it?"

                Dean snorts a little. "Nah, the only Dr. Suess book I could ever get my hands on was _Go Dog, Go._ "

                "That's one of my favorites!" Anna chirps from the stove, throwing a handful of bay leaves into the pot. There are random ingredients spread out on the island counter behind her, and more on the counter next to the stove, half-spilled and torn open, a chaotic mess of food. Castiel winces at the sight. He's not looking forward to trying to clean all this up later.

                "What's your favorite book Dean?" Anna asks, adjusting the heat on the stove. Dean chews on his lip, seeming to hesitate, glancing a little shyly at Castiel where Cas is busy studying the sharp angles of his face intently, like he has to memorize every detail. He'll never get tired of looking at Dean.

                "Uh...well, to tell you the truth, I don't really read much," he admits, "I like movies more."

                "Do you like _Princess Bride_?" Anna asks.

                Dean raises an eyebrow. "Uh, duh?" he replies, as if it's obvious, "Who _doesn't_ like _Princess Bride_?"

                Anna grins widely again, waving her stirring spoon at Dean. "You have my approval to marry my brother at any time," she states, a look of acceptance in her eyes.

                "Anna," Cas groans warningly, blushing furiously, but Dean just laughs, sitting back in his chair, appearing more relaxed. It makes Castiel feel good, to see Dean so relaxed. At school, he always seems so tense, on-edge, like he's waiting for something bad to happen, like he's on guard all the time. Here, Dean smiles easier, and his muscles are looser, like he doesn't have to keep checking over his shoulder.

                Castiel doesn't participate much in the conversation besides a few words here and there, instead electing to just listen as Anna "tests" Dean on his taste in movies and music, practically bombarding Dean with questions. But Dean doesn't seem to mind. He actually seems highly entertained by Anna, and Cas is slowly starting to realize that Dean has a soft spot for children that he never knew existed before. Castiel knows that Dean is always so good with Sam when he sees them together, but he never realized that it went further than that. That Dean is so good with all kids.

                It makes something soft and warm unravel in Castiel's chest, and he never thought it possible that he could like Dean _more_ than he already does. But he feels his affection for this green-eyed boy growing steadily every moment they're together. It's dangerous, to feel this strongly for someone, but Castiel is willing to overlook that for now, overlook his worries and fears that one day this might end. Because right now, feeling this way just feels too damn good, when Dean is _right there_ , and at any moment, Cas is allowed to reach out and run his fingers along Dean's jaw, his shoulder, through his hair and across his full lips.

                He doesn't want to consider himself particularly _possessive_ , but there's a little voice in the back of his head cheering because Dean is _his_. This isn't just a crush anymore. Dean is _his_.

                Anna serves them bowls brimming with the stew she's made, and although there are several strange ingredients thrown in, like pecans and sesame seeds, the soup is still delicious, much to Cas's surprise. Dean wolfs his down, tossing compliments Anna's way about how delicious the "Oobleck" is, and Anna beams with pride. Castiel hides his smile behind his spoon, because he can tell by the look on Anna's face that she's completely taken by Dean, that Dean's charms have won her over, and she approves. For some reason, her approval matters to Castiel. It's like, the more people who know that Dean is a beautiful person, the better. The better Castiel feels.

                When they've all finished their dinner and have washed their bowls, Anna wanders upstairs to work on her fractions homework she's been avoiding, leaving Dean and Castiel to clean up the kitchen together. Dean doesn't complain, not once, just willingly picks up the pots and pans and starts to clean them while Castiel packages up the ingredients and puts them away.

                They move around each other in the kitchen like a dance, like there's _just_ enough room in here for the both of them, and they occupy the space with harmony and cooperation. Like they naturally belong in the same place at once. It just _works_. Castiel can't stop smiling the whole time, even if they're just cleaning, because Dean is here, and he can't stop looking at him every chance he gets. Castiel catches Dean staring at him, and Dean catches Castiel staring at him, and several times, they have to stop so they can share a lingering kiss right there in the middle of the kitchen, Dean with soap suds on his hands and Castiel with fists full of half-finished spice bottles and bags of flour to put away.  

                There's nowhere on the face of this planet where Castiel would rather be right now.

                Three months ago, if someone had told Castiel that he'd be standing in his kitchen kissing Dean Winchester, he would have thought they were crazy.

                When they finish cleaning, Castiel grabs two forks and the half-finished carton of Rocky Road ice cream out of the freezer (Dean wastes no time in making fun of him for using forks to eat ice cream again), and he and Dean wander to the living room, plopping down on the couch and crossing their legs, facing each other with the ice cream between them. Castiel flicks on the TV, but keeps the volume down low, some documentary about sea urchins.

                And they talk. They eat ice cream, and just...talk.

                Castiel is awkward. He knows he's awkward. He always has been. But there something about Dean that just makes him so _easy_ to talk to. They talk about everything when they hang out. Right now, their conversation ranges from how awesome Mr. Wyatt is, to the fact that math is Dean's favorite class just because Castiel is there (which makes Castiel blush furiously of course, and spurs another brief kissing session because Dean loves when Cas blushes), to conversations about Dean's strange relationship with Crowley, to Sam and his school project, to Anna and her tendency to have a new best friend at school every week, to any other mindless topic they happen to drift towards.

                Castiel talks a little bit about his parent's divorce, and how little he's heard about it. He leaves out his worries about moving away from Rail Pass any day now, because he doesn't want to think about it. He wants to enjoy his time with Dean. So he distracts himself by telling Dean a bit about his friends. He tells Dean that Gabriel still hates him, which Dean just kind of laughs at and says that he knows. He tells Dean about the fact that Kevin's only a junior, but he's still in more advanced classes than any of them. He tells Dean about Charlie and Dorothy's relationship progressing nicely, and Dean admits, much to Castiel's surprise, that he hung out with Charlie alone for an hour or so on one of his free periods at school and they got to know each other better. That makes Castiel feel really good. He wants Dean to get along with his friends. He wants people to see how good Dean is.

                They lose track of time just sitting there talking. It's one of the best nights Castiel has ever had, sitting here talking with Dean, finishing the Rocky Road and watching the way Dean's eyes light up when he talks about something he's excited about, a flash of brilliant white teeth when he smiles or laughs at something Castiel says. It's like they've known each other for years, like old friends catching up, talking and talking and never running out of things to say.

                Castiel has never been somewhere where awkward silences don't exist and conversations don't run dry.

                Dean asks about the fingernail marks on Castiel's neck, faint scabs that will heal in a couple days, and Castiel tells him of the nightmares he has sometimes, about Nathan and Elsa Hautley. He's not sure if he's told Dean this before, but it feels good nonetheless to talk about them. He has no idea what the nightmares mean, and they scare him, but he's also had nightmares his whole life about different things, mostly bullies. He figures Nathan and Elsa Hautley are just another thing to scare him in his subconscious mind. Mostly because he wakes up feeling horrifically alone, and if there's anything in this world that Castiel fears more than anything, it's being completely and utterly alone. No one wants to be alone.

                Dean leans forward across the couch and Castiel's breath catches in his throat when Dean kisses the marks on his neck, gently and reverently. Goose bumps prickle on his upper arms and the base of his neck as Dean kisses his throat, trailing his lips down over every shallow scratch from the dream. When he's finally done, Cas is breathing shallowly and desperately wishes that he could crawl on top of Dean right here and now and kiss him until they're both unconscious. But Anna is right upstairs, so Castiel settles on just catching Dean's chin and tilting his face up to give him a long, lingering kiss, dipping his tongue inside Dean's mouth and tasting the earthy flavor of tobacco and menthol from a cigarette Dean must have smoked earlier. Castiel is really beginning to love that taste, even if he hopes Dean will one day quit smoking for the sake of his health. 

                Dean is flushed a gentle pink when they finally break away from the kiss, and Castiel can't help but laugh a little. He loves when Dean blushes just about as much as Dean loves when Castiel blushes.

                When Castiel sits back again, his eyes drift over towards the front window of the living room, and even though there's nothing out there but the streetlamp across the way and the forest, he still shivers a little, because he remembers the glare that Alastair keeps giving him, the one that he gave Castiel tonight outside of Bobby's shop. He half-expects to just look up and find Alastair standing outside his house, looking in, glaring at him, waiting, watching, like some cheetah in the brush stalking an antelope. Castiel wouldn't put it past Al to do something like that. He has no idea what Al is capable of, and his threatening demeanor is a constant source of anxiety.

                Dean seems to notice Cas's sudden shift in expression, because he glances back at the window that Castiel is staring at and then tilts his head down to recapture Castiel's eyes. "You okay?" he asks, and Castiel can't help but relax marginally when he's looking into Dean's eyes.

                He sighs a little, tucking his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. "I'm okay," he replies, although he's not sure if that's true.

                Dean raises his eyebrows, studying him for all of half a second before he snorts and says, "Liar."

                Castiel smiles a little, ducking his head and rubbing at his eyes tiredly. He debates to himself the consequences of bringing up Alastair to Dean when Dean seems so put off by the guy. He doesn't want to make Dean uncomfortable, but he barely knows anything about Al, and since Al seems to be targeting Castiel so unsettlingly, Cas wants to prepare himself. He doesn't know what he's gotten himself into.

                Cas lifts his head, studying Dean for a moment, and then swallows. "Do you..." he begins, and then trails off, unsure how Dean will react. They're having a good night here. He doesn't want to ruin it.

                But Dean just cocks his head. "Do I...what?" he coaxes, smiling a little as he studies the furrow of Castiel's brow.

                Cas hesitates, and then sighs a little, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Do you know Alastair well?" he asks.

                And there it is. There's that shift in Dean's eyes. Castiel sees it the second Alastair's name passes through his lips and into open air. Dean's entire demeanor changes in the blink of an eye. His jaw goes tight, and his eyes glaze over, and he suddenly appears tense. Castiel regrets bringing Al up the moment it leaves his mouth, but before he can apologize, Dean clears his throat.

                "Why?" he asks, his voice tight. Castiel suspects that the change in Dean's demeanor is practically unnoticeable to anyone else, but Cas is ridiculously attuned to Dean, reads him very well, and it makes him feel horrible to see Dean suddenly so uncomfortable.

                He swallows again dryly. "I think...that he has a crush on you or something," Castiel says, and he sees Dean's throat ripple as he gulps, "He doesn't like me very much and he's been...I don't know."

                Dean's hands are clasped together tightly in his lap. "He's been what?"

                Castiel studies him for a moment. He doesn't want to ruin the evening, but by the looks of Dean's suddenly tense demeanor, he's already done that. Damn it. "He's been looking at me like...like he hates me. And he follows me. He showed up at my work tonight. And he says things about you sometimes that make it seem like he's _jealous_ or something."

                Dean stares at him for a moment longer and then looks off to the side, jaw bunched and shoulders tense, anger and something else that Castiel can't quite pinpoint raging on the surface of his eyes. He doesn't say anything for a long time, and Castiel feels horrible for bringing it up. Maybe Dean and Alastair were a thing once? Maybe they had a bad break up? Castiel doesn't find that likely, but something significant _happened_ between them to make Dean react this way at just the mere mention of the guy. Something is wrong.

                "It just..." Castiel continues, because he doesn't know what else to say, and he doesn't like the sudden silence, "It just seems like he's had an infatuation with you for some time. I'm not the only one who's noticed. And now Alastair is acting strangely around me...Does he like you?"

                Dean grits his teeth, his jaw bulging on the side of his face, and he closes his eyes for a moment, swallowing again. Castiel wants nothing more than to just reach forward and kiss it better, this damage that he's done by bringing up something Dean obviously doesn't like talking about. But he doesn't want to make things worse, so he just sits there and waits for Dean to speak.

                "Yeah," Dean finally says, opening his eyes and looking at Castiel, although there's a mask in his eyes, like a thin membrane of protection obscuring a flood of emotion beneath, emotion that might give away whatever it is Dean is trying to hide, "A lot of people have said that Alastair likes me."

                Castiel swallows and cocks his head to the side, his hands itching to reach out and take Dean's. But he doesn't. Something tells him that Dean wouldn't want to be touched right now. It's just an instinct Cas has. "Were you two ever together?" he asks instead, picking away at that wall Dean has set up, a single fingernail scratching away that the barrier Dean has forged around his deepest secrets. Castiel told himself he wouldn't pry, promised Cara he wouldn't, but it's hard to stop himself from picking at that wall.

                Dean actually snorts a little humorless laugh at that, shaking his head. "No, we were never together. I'm not sure that's what Alastair wants from me," he says, his voice a little thick.

                Cas cocks his head to the side once more. "What do you think he wants from you?"

                Dean grits his teeth again, clenching his fists so hard in his lap that his knuckles crack a little. "Oh he's made it _explicitly_ clear what he wants from me," Dean replies, and that only makes Castiel feel more confused. He crinkles his forehead, studying Dean.

                "What do you mean?" he asks. He can't help it. He doesn't understand. He wants to understand.

                Dean swallows again, convulsively, and then blows out all the breath in his lungs, rubbing his forehead briefly. He looks back at Castiel, and that thin, weak little mask hiding all those secrets is splitting a little, emotions leaking through. Mostly, what Castiel sees in Dean's eyes right now is a plea to let the subject drop. Dean shakes his head a little, but he can't seem to find any words for a moment before he swallows and sighs again.

                "What time is it?" Dean asks, and Castiel stares at him for another long moment before fishing his phone out of his pocket and checking.

                "Eleven-fifteen," he replies, looking up at Dean again, and Dean's eyebrows pop.

                "Wow, time flies," he chuckles, and Cas watches the shift as Dean brushes off the conversation about Alastair. His body is still tense, but he's extraordinarily good at hiding things. It's frustrating as hell, but Castiel lets it go for now when he realizes Dean isn't going to answer.

                "I should go," Dean says, fiddling with the long sleeve of his flannel over the arm where Castiel remembers there being Band-Aids, "Gotta make sure Sammy's in bed."

                Castiel feels a twinge of disappointment in his gut. He hates when Dean has to leave. If Cas had it his way, he'd spend every waking moment possible with Dean.

                But, instead of begging Dean to stay like he wants to, he says, "Of course. I'll walk you out."

                Dean gives him a half-smile, and they stand up from the couch, wandering to the front hall. Dean grabs his leather jacket off the coat rack and slides his arms into it while Castiel leans against the wall and stares at him, looking for something, _anything_. He doesn't want Dean to leave upset.

                He swallows. "Dean?" he asks, and Dean looks up at him, "Are you okay?"

                Dean pauses, and then chews his lip before giving Castiel a gentle, subdued smile. He holds out his hand. "Come here," he says softly, and Cas relaxes a little, reaching out and taking Dean's hand, allowing himself to be reeled in.

                Dean leans in and presses their lips together gently, one of his strong hands coming up and weaving through Castiel's hair, his other traveling to the small of Cas's back and pulling them flush together. Castiel sighs into the kiss, melting against Dean, his own hands coming up and wrapping around Dean's back as he kisses him. There's no rush this time. Anna is probably asleep upstairs by now.

                Dean's tongue traces along Castiel's bottom lip, requesting entrance, and Castiel obediently opens his mouth, allowing Dean to slide his tongue inside. The longer they kiss there, the deeper it becomes, their hands clinging to each other. Castiel kisses Dean long enough to feel all the tension bleed out of Dean's tight muscles, leaving him relaxed and almost back to the state of warm happiness he was in before Castiel was stupid enough to bring up Alastair.

                He backs Dean's newly relaxed body up against the wall and pressed into him, earning a low groan and a huff of laughter from Dean as he allows Castiel to maneuver him around, dip his tongue inside Dean's mouth, crush their lips together roughly.

                It's almost five minutes later before Cas finally pulls away, both of them panting, half-hard in their pants, and he rests their foreheads together, their eyes still closed.

                "Fuck," Dean groans, chuckling a little, "See what you do to me Cas?" He emphasizes his point by shifting a little, his arousal evident through his jeans. Cas huffs a little laugh, pulling away completely so they're no longer pressed together against the wall.

                "I was just leaving you with something to think about when you fall asleep tonight," he replies, earning a laugh from Dean.

                "That so?" he grins, "You're an asshole, blue-balling me."

                Castiel chuckles again, and places one last kiss on Dean's lips before opening the front door. "See you tomorrow," he says, and Dean grimaces as ice cold air flows in through the open door, snow falling in earnest outside now.

                He groans as he eyes the falling snow, and then leans in, giving Cas one more kiss before stepping outside and down off the front porch.

                "Text me when you get home," Castiel calls after him, "So I know you're safe."

                Dean looks back at him. "Aw Cas, worried about me?"

                Castiel rolls his eyes, which makes Dean laugh. "Just do it?"

                Dean snorts. "Promise," he replies, and then stares at Cas for a moment longer before smiling softly, turning and wandering across the lawn towards the street, his heavy work boots leaving large footprints in the freshly fallen snow.

                Castiel stands there in the doorway watching after Dean until he disappears around the corner at the end of the block. Then, shivering, he closes the front door and switches off all the lights, wandering upstairs. He checks to make sure Anna is asleep, tucking her in more snuggly, and then gets ready for bed fast and slips into his own bed, shivering in the cold of the house.

                It takes him a long time to fall asleep. He feels like an idiot for bringing up Alastair. He's scared of Al, but it's obvious that Dean is scared of him too, in his own way. It was selfish of Cas to bring it up.

                He lays awake staring at the origami penis Dean made him on his nightstand, smiling to himself as he looks at it because it's silly and dorky, just like Dean. His phone vibrates fifteen minutes later with a text from Dean letting him know that **_I made it home without getting kidnapped by any psycho killers, you can stop worrying_**. Cas rolls his eyes and sends a goodnight text in reply before setting his phone aside and staring up at the ceiling.

                He wishes that he'd have dreams about Dean tonight, but he knows that's not going to happen. Chances are, his sick, twisted mind is going to force him into dreams about Nathan and Elsa Hautley again. Or worse: Alastair. With poisonous dread roiling low in his gut, he closes his eyes and forces himself to drift off to sleep. 

 

*       *       *

 

                By the time Dean gets home fifteen minutes later, that feeling of angel wings and pixie dust and everything happy like a Disney movie has drained from his system. When he's with Castiel, it's there and ever-present, but Dean's mind is apparently stunted and useless, and he can't for the life of him figure out how to maintain that feeling when he's alone. So he settles for cigarettes instead, and hanging out with Sam, and alcohol, and whatever other little things in this world make him forget about the fact that he's existing as _himself_.

                He sniffs as he makes his way inside through the front door, his nose running from the icy cold. There's a fresh layer of snow on the ground outside, but it's slowing down a bit, and everything is just frozen in place in the late evening darkness. He hears banging around from the kitchen when he steps inside, and he shrugs out of his jacket as he makes his way down the hall, shooting a text to Cas really quick as requested.

                John is standing at the island counter in the kitchen, his back to Dean, doing something with his hands that Dean can't see. Dean's eyebrows raise in surprise. He wasn't expecting to see his father here. It's almost midnight, but John is usually out until the Roadhouse closes at two.

                "Hey dad," Dean greets, his voice a little rough and low. John isn't breaking things or swearing, so Dean is going to assume that he's in an alright mood. He hopes anyway.

                John half-glances back, not quite looking at Dean, before lowering his eyes back down at whatever he's doing again. "The hell were you?" he asks gruffly, his words a little fuzzy around the edges. So he's drunk, Dean surmises. No surprise there.

                "Over at a friend's," Dean replies, coming forward and keeping a few feet of distance between himself and his father as he steps up to the counter. He almost laughs when he sees that John is trying to glue back together several broken pieces of a ceramic plate that he smashed. It's the last one they had, and Dean and Sam have just been using paper towels as plates since then. John is gluing it all wrong though, with a hot glue gun, and some of the pieces he's trying to stick together aren't even from the same plate.

                "Come on," Dean says, reaching out and cautiously trying to take the hot glue gun out of his father's hand, "You should get to bed. It's late."

                John slaps Dean's hand away. "Speak f'r yourself," he grumbles, "I'm tryn'a finish this."

                Dean presses his lips together to keep from laughing. John's drunk antics are annoying and scary, but they're also funny sometimes. This is one of those times. Like watching a little kid try to fix something he's broken but doing it completely wrong.

                "Dad, just leave it. You can finish it in the morning," Dean coaxes, trying to take the hot glue gun again. This time, John lets it go with a hard sigh. His breath reeks of whiskey, and the smell makes Dean want a couple shots of his own, just to take the edge off, but he doubts there's any left in the house after John got his paws on it.

                Dean pulls his father away from the counter and the sorry pieces of broken ceramic, and John sways drunkenly, nearly losing his balance. "Whoa," Dean utters, catching his father's heavy weight with a grunt, looping one of John's arms over his shoulder to keep him upright.

                "Smart ass," John mutters under his breath for seemingly no reason, eyes half-closed as he allows Dean to lead him out of the kitchen. Dean just rolls his eyes and says nothing, struggling under the substantial weight of his father. John isn't fat, not at all, just _dense._ Well-muscled, strong, heavy. A trait he passed on to Dean, and probably Sam, although puberty hasn't hit to fill Sammy out yet.

                Dean drags John into the master bedroom, helping him over to the bed, and then all but dumping him on top of the comforter. John grunts and snorts a little, mumbling something that Dean doesn't hear. Dean reaches down and unlaces his father's boots, yanking them off and tossing them aside before rolling John onto his side in case he throws up, so he won't choke on his own puke. It's been a while since John threw up while drunk, but you can never be too careful.

                As he turns to leave the room again, he jumps a little when John calls out, "Wait."

                Dean looks back, and finds John staring at him with half-open eyes, watery and drunk, but _aware_ enough to the point where Dean isn't sure he'd get away with slipping out of the room now without engaging in conversation. "What?" he asks.

                John waves a hand briefly. "Come'n talk t'your father for a minute," John slurs, and Dean successfully keeps himself from rolling his eyes. Father-son bonding time is just awkward and painful in the Winchester house.

                But he still sighs lowly, turning back and grabbing the small chair sitting next to the nightstand, pulling it up and sitting down in it beside the bed. He may as well savor any quality time with his dad while John is in a good mood, rather than throwing dishes and shouting. John smiles lazily.

                "How's school goin' son?" he asks, and Dean chews on the inside of his cheek.

                "Fine," he replies simply. He sits there for a moment in silence before he realizes that John is waiting for him to say more. Dean sighs, a little annoyed and a little tired, and he sits back, rubbing the back of his neck, fishing for something else to say. The only think he can think to talk about is Castiel, though. What the hell, right? "I met someone," he says, and John's eyes light up just a bit.

                "Didya now?" he smiles drunkenly, "Well bring her over f'dinner sometime, I'd like t'meet her."

                Dean blushes a little. He's sure he's had this conversation with his dad before. He's sure he's told John that he's into boys too at some point. But John was likely too out of it to remember. Dean almost laughs, but settles on being annoyed instead. How many times is he going to have to come out to his father?

                "He's a guy, dad," he says, "His name's Cas, and I care a lot about him."

                John's mouth forms a little frown for a moment, and he hums as Dean's words sink in. "Didn't know you were queer," he ponders aloud, and Dean _does_ roll his eyes this time.

                He figures it'd be sort of pointless to explain to John what _bisexual_ means right now when John's so drunk, so he lets it go. "I'll bring him over sometime so you can meet him," Dean says, although he never plans on following through with that. Hell if Cas is getting within a hundred feet of this house. If Dean has it his way, Castiel will never meet John. It's better that way. And besides, John will probably forget this conversation by morning anyway. At least he doesn't have heavy hands tonight.

                "That'd be nice," John nods, and they sit there for a moment in awkward silence before John suddenly twitches, his eyes lighting up again like he just remembered something. He reaches out towards Dean (and Dean will deny to the grave that he flinches when John's hand gets near him, because that's really just pathetic) and pats him a couple times companionably on the forearm.

                "By th'way, happy birthday son," John says, smiling slightly, and Dean's eyes shoot up from where they were looking down at John's hand on his arm. His forehead creases in confusion for a moment, and he looks off to the side before it suddenly hits him.

                Today is his birthday.

                He completely forgot. He's nineteen today. How could he forget his own birthday?

                He gulps a little, blinking a couple times as a sudden flurried wave of sadness washes over him. So _that's_ why today has felt so different. Dean felt like he was missing something all day, like something was supposed to be happening, or something was different. Turns out, somewhere deep down, his brain was trying to remind him that today was supposed to be special. It's his birthday, and it just turned out to be like any other day.

                He knew something was different, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. Now he knows that today was supposed to be special, but instead, apart from the time he spent with Cas (which is always awesome), this day turned out to be extraordinarily ordinary. Just another day.

                "I left somethin' for you in the fridge," John adds in a tired slur, oblivious to Dean's inner turmoil, patting his arm once more before withdrawing his hand and settling into his pillow.

                Dean swallows and glances down to find John's eyes closed. Dean stares at him for a moment. How did John remember his birthday, and Dean didn't?

                He licks his lips, trying to swallow back the sudden inexplicable sadness he feels. He almost wishes John hadn't told him, because birthdays, frankly, are depressing. He sighs, pausing for another moment just to make sure John isn't going to say anything else, and then pushes himself up from the chair, pulling it back over next to the nightstand and grabbing John's trash can, setting it beside the bed just in case John throws up. The last thing Dean needs is to be cleaning up his father's puke.

                "Night dad," he mumbles as he leaves the room, but John is already asleep, impressively fast thanks to the whiskey. Dean sighs tiredly as he makes his way back down the hall to the kitchen, unplugging the hot glue gun on his way to the fridge. He opens it, looking inside for whatever John said he left for him. It takes him a couple seconds to spot it.

                There's a single slice of pie in plastic packaging on the middle shelf, just a cheap little thing from the grocery store in town. Dean huffs a sad laugh, plucking the pie out of the fridge, finding his name scrawled messily in sharpie on the top of the plastic package. He may as well just eat it now, have a little celebration of his own for his birthday, end the day on a high note at least.

                He plops the pie - _apple_ pie, he notes - onto a paper towel and heats it up for a minute in the microwave before carrying it down the hall. Sammy must be asleep by now, so Dean heads to his own room, pushing the door open and wandering over to his mattress on the floor. He sets his pie down briefly to strip out of his clothes, leaving himself in just his boxers. His skin prickles in the cold of the room, so he fishes a long-sleeved t-shirt out of his hamper and pulls it on to help keep himself warm throughout the night.

                He lays back on his bed, staring up at the Yoda mobile spinning lazily where it hangs from the ceiling beneath the _Return of the Jedi_ poster, eating his cheap birthday pie in about three and a half bites. It's not the best pie there is, but pie is pie in Dean's book, so he enjoys it anyway. He thinks over how he spent the day. School sucked, as usual, except for seeing Castiel in math class. Hanging out with Crowley was alright, as it always is. And dinner at Castiel's house was nice, just like everything to do with Castiel is nice.

                Dean supposes today wasn't _that_ bad, apart from the low feeling in Dean's chest that's persisted for a while now, the one that makes him feel like he had a storm cloud following him around. As far as birthdays go, it wasn't exactly ideal, but it wasn't horrible, Dean decides. He shouldn't feel so sad about it right now, but he does. Fuck birthdays, making him feel this way. Disappointing him.

                He lays there for a while after he finishes his pie, just staring at the little paper Yoda's above him, one arm tucked behind his head, his paper towel wadded up and tossed across the room in the general direction of the trash can.

                It isn't until a few minutes later that he hears a sudden, muffled sound coming through the wall from Sam's room. Dean looks over at the wall, waiting a few moments before he hears the weird sound again. He figured Sam was asleep, but maybe he was wrong.

                When he hears the sound for a third time, Dean grimaces. _Gross_. He's almost certain that Sam is jerking off right now. The least the kid could do is keep it down. Their house has thin walls.

                Dean snorts and rolls onto his side, reaching out and slapping on his old, nearly-broken CD player. He keeps it turned down low, but loud enough to block out the noises coming through the wall. Metallica starts crackling out of the speakers, and Dean closes his eyes, listening to the music and trying to fall asleep.

                But he doesn't even make it through the first song on his CD before he hears a sudden crash, loud enough to be heard over his music. Dean's eyes fly open, and he reaches out again, punching the CD player off and sitting up, staring at the wall between his and Sam's room like it holds all the answers. He hears those muffled noises again, and then something clatters to the floor behind the wall.

                _What the hell_? Dean shoves himself to his feet, wandering barefoot in his boxers and shirt out into the hall and down to Sam's door. He pauses, hesitating, just to make _absolutely_ sure that Sam isn't just discovering what happens when he touches himself. Hell, Dean was ten when he learned how to jerk off. Sam's just about at that age...

                But then he hears the sound again, louder this time, and it sounds suspiciously like a sob. Dean reaches up and knocks on the door, receiving no reply other than the sound of sniffling. He grabs the doorknob and pushes his way inside. His breath catches in his throat.

                It's _chaos_.

                Dean spots Sammy first, sitting at his desk with his back to Dean, working on something there. When Dean looks around, he spots all the boxes from the back of dad's closet, torn open and rifled through, papers and pictures and folders everywhere. He recognizes a couple photo albums that Sam must have gotten out of the attic, laying open on the floor among the wreckage, pictures of Mary Winchester smiling out of the protective plastic slots.

                Dean feels his stomach twist and drop as his eyes fall upon the photos of himself when he was recovering in the hospital after The Accident. Sam found the file that John kept on it in their father's closet. All the pictures of Dean's burn scars are out and visible, scattered across the floor, and next to them, files about their mother's death, and pictures of the burnt out shell of their car.

                Dean is frozen in place for several long seconds, just staring at all the pictures, the contents of the boxes. _Shit_.

                When he finally raises his eyes again, Sam is looking back at him. His face is streaked in tears, all red and splotchy, snot dripping out of his nose. He's never been an attractive crier.

                When Dean looks at him, Sam just starts crying harder, and Dean's legs carry him across the room to his brother before his brain even realizes what he's doing.

                Sam shoves himself up from his chair at his desk, meeting Dean halfway, and Dean goes to give him a hug, because Sam has never seen this stuff. He's _never_ seen the pictures of Dean's injuries after The Accident, or read about the gory details of Mary's death. He's never seen it. Dean planned on telling him one day, telling him more than Sam knows, but he never intended for Sam to know this soon. He never wanted Sam to know the extent of what happened. Not yet.

                Instead of hugging Dean though, Sam claws at the end of Dean's shirt, lifting it up after a couple tries. Dean freezes with his arms poised for a hug in the air, and just lets Sam do what he wants, mostly because he's taken aback and doesn't know how to react. Sam stares at the off-white lumps and twists of Dean's burns all along his side under his shirt, stares at them for several long seconds, and Dean can't get a good read on the look in Sam's eyes before his brother crumples again, falling into Dean and letting his shirt drop back into place.

                Dean catches Sam around his small shoulders and holds onto him tightly as Sam sobs, and Sam's hands clutch Dean's back, gripping him almost painfully tight. It takes Dean a couple moments to notice Sam is saying something through his tears, and when he realizes that Sam is mumbling "I'm sorry," over and over again, Dean's heart shatters.

                _No_. _Hell no_. He's _not_ about to let Sam blame himself for this. For any of it. He tries to pull Sam off of him, but Sam just clings to him harder, shaking his head, his face buried in Dean's stomach.

                "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he sobs, voice muffled by tears and Dean's shirt, "It's my fault! She's dead, and you-you're hurt! I wish I could take it back, I'm sorry!"

                "Sammy, stop," Dean snaps, reaching back and grabbing his brother's wrists, prying his arms away and pushing Sam back just enough to where he can see his face. He grips Sam's shoulders tightly and shakes him once. "This is _not_ your fault. It never was. Don't you dare even _think_ that."

                But Sam doesn't listen. He's crying too hard, and he shakes his head, his nose dripping and his hair wild around his face. He mumbles mindlessly through his tears, saying he's sorry over and over like a broken record, saying he wishes he could take it back, that he was never born so mom could still be alive.

                Dean stares down at his brother, his chest seizing up, because he has no idea what to do, what to _say_. Sam's too upset right now, he's not going to listen to logic or reason. He's not going to listen to anything Dean says right now.

                Somewhere in the back corner of his mind, Dean knows that Sam is probably just in shock from discovering all these files and things about The Accident. He's probably in shock at the new information he's learned about the worst day of their lives. He's not thinking rationally. But _fuck_ if it doesn't hurt to see Sammy this way.

                "Alright, that's enough," Dean chokes, pulling Sam in for another hug. Sam fights him this time, shouting _no_ and _sorry_ , and trying to push Dean away. But Dean holds onto him tightly, hugging him close to his chest like the harder he squeezes him, the more Sam will forget about everything he's learned tonight. About everything he found in those boxes from John's closet. Fuck, Dean should have thrown those out the second he discovered them himself. Why does John even have these for Christ's sake? What's the point of having folders about Dean's injuries, and reports about the details of Mary's death, and pictures of their burnt car? What's the point?

                Dean holds onto Sam for a long while, long enough for Sam's wild sobs to die down to whimpers and sniffles. Sam stops fighting him, just hanging on loosely as Dean holds him, rocking him a little and shushing him, hoping that John is drunk enough to sleep through all the commotion. The last thing they need is for their father to come in here and see all these pictures and papers laying around on the floor.

                Dean glances around is disgust at all the files for a moment, and then pulls away from Sam a little bit, looping an arm around his brother's shoulders and leading him over to his bed. He holds up the blanket and nudges Sam to crawl under it.

                "Go to sleep Sammy," he says tiredly, "We'll talk about it in the morning, okay?"

                Sam sniffles in reply, not resisting, just sliding in under the covers and laying his head down on his pillow. Dean notices colors smudged on his hands and glances over at his desk to see a pile of drawings laying there. He dismisses them for now, instead reaching over to grab some tissues to mop up the tears and snot from Sam's face. Sam is still crying steadily, but he allows Dean to clean him up, and then Dean pulls Sam's desk chair up, sitting down next to the bed.

                Sam mumbles something else, his eyes falling closed as a couple more tears slip sideways down his face, but Dean just shushes him and tells him to go to sleep, that he'll be right here. He glances over at the clock on Sam's nightstand, seeing at it's 11:58. There are two more minutes of his birthday.

                Two minutes. That's it, until next year.

                Dean swallows hard, looking back down at Sam, brushing his wild hair out of his face and tucking the blanket up tighter around his shoulders.

                He ponders how he should spend the last two minutes of his birthday, his stomach roiling with nausea at how quickly this night went to shit. He decides to think of everything happy that he can possibly muster up in the next couple minutes. Might as well end his birthday on a happy note, right?

                The only happy thoughts he can come up with, though, are thoughts about Castiel. So he thinks about Cas. He thinks about those blue eyes catching the winter sun, and the way his dark hair looks when he walks to school with Dean in the morning sometimes, when it's still wild and wet from a shower. He thinks of Castiel's strong hands pinning him against a wall as they kiss, and the way those powerful hands are so gentle when they brush over Dean's cheek, his chest, his jaw.

                The two minutes go by shockingly fast, and by the time Dean glances over to see that it's midnight, and his birthday is over, he doesn't really feel better. He wants more than anything to have Cas here right now, but other than that new urge, he still feels low. He looks down at Sam, his little forehead crinkled in distress as he tries to fall asleep. Or maybe he already is asleep?

                Dean stands up from the chair, checking to make sure Sam's eyes stay closed, and then he turns, wandering over and gathering up all the pictures and files and papers from where they're scattered across the floor. He very deliberately doesn't look at the pictures of himself in the hospital, or any pictures of Mary, or their burnt car. He tucks them all away, not even bothering to keep them organized, and piles all the boxes and albums in the corner of the room where they're more out of sight for now. 

                When he walks back over to Sam's desk, he spots the drawings Sam was working on when Dean walked in. He squints at them and then reaches down, picking them up.

                His stomach turns with a new wave of nausea as he realizes what they're of.

                The first drawing he looks at is a very detailed depiction of a blonde woman with her head caved in, blood running in rivulets down her lifeless body. There's no mistaking who the woman is, and Dean has to swallow convulsively to keep himself from puking right then and there. He knew Sam could draw, he just didn't know he could draw this _well_. The drawings are vivid, and detailed, and extremely realistic. Dean flips to the next paper, and finds a drawing of a car on fire with a screaming woman trapped inside. The next drawing is similar, of a charred body behind the wheel of a small, burnt car.

                Dean's hands are shaking as he flips through the drawings. Almost all of them are of Mary, gory or burnt or dying, and a couple of them are of Dean, laying burnt and broken next to the car in the grass, with baby Sammy in his arms. Only, Sam didn't draw himself as just a regular baby. He added horns and wings and made himself look like a demon or monster.

                Dean wants to scream.

                How could Sam up and decide to blame himself for The Accident? How could Sam see himself this way? He was less than a year old when Mary died. What the hell was he supposed to do to prevent it? None of this is his fault.

                _Fuck_.

                Dean throws the drawings back on the desk, suddenly completely lost because he has no idea what to do about this. What the hell is he supposed to say to convince Sammy that this wasn't his fault, that it was _no one's_ fault?

                His legs feel weak as he makes his way back over to Sam's bed, fighting nausea. He usually feels a little bit of nausea every time he thinks about The Accident, but this is different. This sickness is more potent. He failed Sammy tonight. He wasn't here to protect him. And now Sam knows everything, knows all those gruesome details about The Accident that Dean never wanted him to know. At least not until he was old enough to handle it better. Sam probably discovered all this shit on accident looking for more information for that history project of his at school. Fuck.

                Dean swallows back guilt and bile, and pushes Sam aside so he can crawl into bed with him. Sam snuffles in his sleep, whimpering a little, and then stills. Dean rolls over so he's facing his brother, and reaches out, wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist, for his own comfort more than anything.

                His mind is a mess of guilt, shock, nausea, and denial. He doesn't want to deal with this. He's not ready to face Sam in the morning. He doesn't know what to say. How to make this better.

                He falls asleep hours later, only to have a violent nightmare about squealing metal bending in on itself, and screaming infants, and explosions of fire, and blood. Blood everywhere.

                Sam shakes him awake from the dream sometime in the middle of the night, and Dean apologizes for waking him up. He keeps his face as even as he can until Sam falls back asleep, but there's no way Dean is getting back to sleep tonight. Fuck, he wants a cigarette. He wants one bad.

                And frankly, he wants to put one out on his arm. Burn these horrible thoughts away. Because this is the most stressful night he's had in weeks.

                But one of Sam's hands is curled around his wrist, and Dean really doesn't want to wake his brother up. So he lays there, and stares up at the glow in the dark stars and moons on Sam's ceiling, and he tries not to think about those graphic drawings laying on Sam's desk not ten feet away. Dean really wants to just get up and burn them, all the drawings, but that almost seems a little ironic. Or maybe redundant.

                He wracks his mind for ways to make this right, to make this all better, but he can't come up with anything. Mostly because he's distracted by the nauseating phantom smell of burning hairspray in the back of his nose.


	23. Through The Trees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!! Worst writer's block ever, but my school year is almost over so hopefully posting schedules will start to get back to normal now :) Shout out to heyacas and chaaaaachu on Tumblr, and my friends in Destiel Forever on Facebook -- thanks for giving me some tips on getting over writer's block <3 The support helped a lot :) As always, sorry for any typos. Enjoy this super extra long (and very very late) chapter <3

                Sam doesn't talk about it.  

                Dean should have expected as much from a Winchester. Sam is his younger brother after all.

                Dean finds him hunched over unfinished homework at their brand new thrift store table in the kitchen the next morning, upon wandering back into the house from the icy cold. Dean hadn't slept at all for the rest of the night, and had quietly slipped out of bed upon first light to climb up onto the roof in nothing but boxers, his shirt, and boots to chain smoke half a pack of cigarettes in dread of the coming day.

                If it weren't for the fact that it's cold enough to freeze his snot, and the fact that the squash lady had conveniently appeared at her window just in time to see Dean staring at his mottled forearm searching for a good place to burn himself again, Dean would still be out there right now finishing off his pack of smokes.

                Instead, he reenters the house and follows the subtle smell of...mashed potatoes? He shouldn't be surprised that it's the only quick food they have left in the house. Neither he nor John have gotten any groceries in a while. Dean stands in the doorway of the kitchen for a moment, eyeing Sam scribbling something down in one of his notebooks, and then lets his eyes sweep over to the island counter where a partially-eaten bowl of mashed potatoes sits, fresh from the microwave with the package for the potato powder lying torn next to it.

                Despite his rumbling stomach and his watering mouth at the deceivingly-fresh smell of the artificial potatoes, Dean opts to wander over to the table and sits down across from Sam, hesitating before folding his hands on the table and eyeing his brother. Sam's hair is stringy and unwashed, hands still smudged with colors from his impromptu mental breakdown and subsequent burst of nightmarish artistic creativity last night, but from an outsider's perspective, he would appear normal, if a little tired.

                If it weren't for the fact that Dean happened to catch Sam in the midst of his breakdown last night, had wiped the tears from his brother's face and held back the urge to vomit at the graphic pictures he drew, Dean would think this was just another regular morning in the Winchester household.

                Instead, he's got a rock in his stomach made of worry and hesitation. He doesn't know what to say to Sam. How do you convince a twelve-year-old that a tragedy from his infancy is not in any way his fault? Where does Dean even begin to touch on the subject of Mary Winchester?

                "You can stop staring at any time now," Sam says without looking up from his textbook, his voice jolting Dean out of his whirlwind of thoughts. He realizes he's been sitting here for a solid thirty seconds in complete silence.

                He clears his throat and huffs a little breath, reaching up and scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

                What the hell, right? He may as well just dive in headfirst.

                "Wanna tell me what happened last night?" Dean asks, studying his brother.

                Sam's pencil stops moving across his paper for a moment, and Dean sees him grit his teeth. For once, the silence between them is uncomfortable, stifling. But Dean just waits. Waits for Sam to say something, _do_ something. Dean needs something to go off of, needs to know what the hell is going on in his brother's head. He glances briefly down at Sam's notebook in front of him, half expecting to see drawings of a woman on fire and a demon child in her arms. But there's only algebra.

                Sam finally lifts his eyes, but he doesn't look at Dean. Instead, he clears his throat a little and nods his head towards the counter. "I made breakfast," he says, "You should eat before it gets cold."

                Dean doesn't move, just stares as Sam looks back down and continues to scribble in his notebook. That's it? That's all Dean gets? He should have known that Sam would want to pretend nothing even happened. Dean does that all the time. It's surprisingly frustrating being on the receiving end of the avoidance though.

                He licks his dry lips, and despite the fact that he just smoked half a pack, he wants another cigarette. His forearm throbs with an aching need to be burned, and under the table he rubs it against his thigh, jostling the healing burns a bit to stave off the craving. His scars along his side are smoldering dully with phantom pains. He knows from experience that the pain will only get worse the longer he thinks about The Accident, but he has to deal with it. For his brother.

                "Sammy..." Dean begins, unsure how to even go about saying the right thing.

                "Dean, seriously, eat," Sam interrupts, finally raising his eyes to lock them with Dean's, "We're gonna be late."

                Dean stares at him, swallowing hard. Sam looks exhausted, eyes sunken and skin pale. That's about all Dean gets a chance to see before Sam tears his eyes away and looks back down at his homework again, jaw set stubbornly. Dean knows that face. Sam isn't going to break. At least not yet.

                Dean sighs tiredly, rubbing at his eye, and then hesitates before standing. Winchesters. So stubbornly closed off. So quietly brave. Sometimes Dean wishes he'd grown up in a family where everyone talked about what the hell was bothering them.

                But then again, no.

                He turns and starts walking towards the counter where the suddenly-unappetizing looking mashed potatoes still sit, looking like whipped mounds of buttery plastic.

                From behind him, Sam sighs and says, "Dean, wait."

                Dean turns back around.

                Sam chews on his lip for a moment, fiddling with his pencil, and Dean thinks that _maybe_ , just _maybe_ , he's about to spill about what happened last night. But instead, his brother just drops his pencil and stands, coming around the table and giving Dean a hug, wrapping himself tightly around Dean's middle. Dean's arms automatically come around to hug Sam's bony shoulders back, and he looks down at the top of Sam's head in confusion.

                Before he can ask, Sam says, "Happy birthday."

                Dean's forehead smoothes out and he huffs a little breath. "Little late there spud."

                Sam shrugs, clapping Dean once on the back and pulling away. "Sorry," he replies, "I meant to say it yesterday, but you weren't here, and then..."

                Then he got distracted having a mental breakdown. "Yeah," Dean finishes for him, letting it drop for now. Sam gives him a half-smile that looks more like a grimace.

                They stand there in awkward silence for a moment, and then Dean snorts a little, turning away to grab some mashed potatoes off the island counter. "Tell you the truth, I actually forgot," he says as Sam wanders back over to the table.

                "You forgot your own birthday?" Sam chuckles, sounding a little better now that they've steered clear of the subject of last night, "Dude, that's lame."

                Dean huffs. "Yeah, well, whatever. Nineteen is just a filler year anyway."

                Sam studies him for a moment before snorting and leaning to the side, fishing around in the front pocket of his backpack for something while Dean walks back over and sits down, shoveling potatoes gracelessly into his mouth. Sam sits up again and holds out a wad of folded up newspaper towards Dean. Dean eyes it and raises one eyebrow.

                "It's a birthday present," Sam says, waving it a little. Dean grins around his mouthful of potatoes and accepts it, tearing into the crappy wrapping job.

                A stiff, coiled black bracelet lays inside, and he plucks it out delicately, studying it. "Bobby helped me pick it out," Sam says, "It's made out of elephant hair. It's supposed to be good luck."

                Dean swallows his bite of food and smiles, fiddling with the bracelet in his hands for a moment before looking up at his brother, who's sitting there wide-eyed and waiting for a reaction. "Thanks Sammy, I love it," Dean says, and Sam slumps slightly in relief, smiling back.

                Dean shovels another bite of potatoes into his mouth before slipping the bracelet onto his wrist. He makes sure to put it on the arm where he doesn't have any cigarette burns. For some reason, putting it on the arm with the burns seems like it would be in poor taste.

                "I saved money all month to get it," Sam says, "Bobby had me doing a bunch of odd jobs to make a few extra bucks. He even had me fix Rufus's sink in Stowe."

                Dean laughs. "Rufus builds clocks with his bare hands and he can't even fix his own sink?"

                Sam shrugs with a little smile, but says nothing more. They chat for a few more minutes while Dean finishes off the mashed potatoes, and then Sam packs up his school work while Dean heads back to his room to throw on some clothes for the day. He carefully rolls his sleeve down over the burns, wincing when the fabric rubs the more tender ones. He's going to have the get more Band-Aids soon; he's worked his way through Sam's whole collection. He hopes no one mentions it, although he caught Sam eyeing the abundance of Band-Aid wrappers in the trash can in the bathroom the other day, and had quickly slipped out before he could ask.

                Dean slings his backpack over his shoulder and he and Sam step out of the house, being quiet to avoid waking John, whose door is still closed down the hall. Dean stands on the street and watches Sam walk away, waiting for his mop of limp hair to disappear around the corner at the end of the block before slipping quietly back into the house.

                He steps into Sam's room and quickly gathers all the boxes and albums and files from the corner where he stacked them last night, carefully avoiding looking down at any of the pictures that he can see poking out of the folds, and carries them to his own room. He grabs the pile of drawings off of Sam's desk as well, although he can't keep himself from glancing at them briefly.

                Sam seems okay, but Dean knows how deceiving that can be. He still feels uneasy, because he caught a glimpse of the inner turmoil in Sam's head last night, when it was raw and exposed. Something like that doesn't just go away overnight, although Sam is doing a good job of hiding it. Dean feels helpless, but for now, he can get the files and albums and drawings out of Sam's room. Out of sight, out of mind.

                He buries all of it under laundry in the corner of his room for now, trying to decide what he wants to do with it all. He's not sure how ironic it would be to burn all of it.

                Sighing, he massages the heel of his hand into his aching scars as those phantom pains flare up again, and heads out of his house, thinking to himself that nineteen isn't going to be much different than eighteen.

 

*       *       *

 

                The moment Dean sees Castiel fifteen minutes later, his whole mood instantly brightens. He waits on Missouri Moseley’s front lawn while Cas drops Anna off there, and then immediately twines his fingers with Castiel’s as they head across the street towards the woods.

                Cas has that little endearing smile on his face that he sometimes gets, the one that barely touches his lips but shines brightly in his eyes. Dean waits until they’ve stepped far enough into the cold forest to where no one can see them before spinning Cas around and backing him up against a tree, mashing their mouths together.

                Cas laughs into the kiss like he knew it was going to happen, and instantly kisses Dean back. Kissing Cas is like a breath of fresh air, and Dean sighs into it as he feels the bunched up tension that he’d woken up with in his muscles slowly melt away. The phantom pains he’s been fighting to ignore in his scars immediately disappear, and he clings to Cas’s jacket, one hand coming up and weaving through the damp hairs at the base of Castiel’s neck, smelling clean and crisp from his recent shower.

                The kiss doesn’t last very long, but it’s everything Dean needs. He needed his fix of Cas this morning, his fix of the taste of Castiel’s lips, the feeling of his breath ghosting over Dean’s face in quiet huffs. When they finally break apart, Dean rests his forehead against Cas’s for a moment, just sighing, his breath foggy in the icy air.

                “Good morning,” Castiel smiles, and Dean grins back, feeling exponentially better than he did not five minutes ago.

                “Hey,” he replies, finally stepping back. Castiel pushes himself away from the tree and they begin walking again, both their cheeks tinged slightly in pink, lips still tingling from the kiss, hands still intertwined.

                Cas shifts his arm a little and his wrist bumps Dean’s new elephant hair bracelet poking out from under his sleeve.

                “What’s this?” Castiel asks, pulling Dean’s hand up a little higher to examine the bracelet.

                Dean lets himself stare at Castiel’s angular face, his sharp blue eyes, while Cas is distracted looking at the bracelet. “Sammy gave it to me this morning,” he replies, and Cas looks back up at him, the fingers of his free hand absently fiddling with the bracelet.

                “Elephant hair is said to bring the wearer great fortune and protection,” Castiel says, and of _course_ he would already know that, “What’s the occasion?”

                Dean flushes a little, glancing down at the bracelet. “It’s a birthday present.”

                Cas’s face lights up. “Today is your birthday?” he asks with a smile, and Dean blushes harder, huffing a little embarrassed laugh.

                “No, yesterday,” he replies bashfully, “I, uh, I forgot.”

                To Dean’s surprise, Castiel doesn’t regard him strangely or give him a judgmental look. It isn’t exactly normal to forget one’s own birthday, but Cas barely gives that fact a fleeting thought. Instead, he smiles, a big genuine smile, and he pulls Dean’s hand up to his mouth, kissing his scarred up knuckles. “Happy birthday Dean,” he says earnestly, “We should celebrate.”

                Dean glances over at him, waggling his eyebrows seductively. “Oh?” he asks, “What are you implying?”

                Cas rolls his eyes and nudges Dean with his shoulder. “ _Dinner_ ,” he chuckles, “Tomorrow night. Anywhere you want, it’s my treat.”

                Dean smiles. “Really?”

                “Of course,” Cas replies, “We should do something special. Birthdays should be special.”

                Dean snorts, shrugging. “They’ve never really been a big deal in my house,” he admits, “Just another year older.”

                Castiel squeezes his hand. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he coaxes, “Say yes.”

                Dean huffs a little laugh, looking over at Cas. As if he’d ever refuse an invitation from this blue eyed boy. “Yes,” he replies, and Cas smiles again, leaning in and giving him a quick peck on the lips.

                “Good.”

                They walk in comfortable, calm silence for the rest of the way to the school. When they break free of the trees, still hand in hand, the scent of cigarette smoke from The Docks is heavy in the windless morning chill. Dean keeps himself between Castiel and The Docks just in case his friends decide to start throwing rocks again.

                He looks over at the circle of boulders and cement blocks. All his friends are there, laughing and carrying on. None of them are even paying any attention to Dean and Castiel.

                None of them, that is, expect for Alastair.

                He’s sitting back away from Crowley, Gordon, and Zach, cigarette pinched between his fingers, glaring over in Dean and Castiel’s direction like they’ve done something to personally offend him. Dean feels that sickly nausea boil low in his gut when he looks at Alastair, feels those phantom pains flare up again, but this time, he doesn’t look away when Alastair locks eyes with him.

                Dean hadn’t wanted to alarm Castiel last night, hadn’t wanted to scare him. So he didn’t react much beyond what he couldn’t really control when Castiel told him about Alastair stalking him, glaring at him, _threatening_ him. But the truth is, Dean is _furious_.

                Who the hell does Alastair think he is? Dean is almost positive that the reason Al has taken a sudden dark interest in Castiel is because of Dean. Dean has no idea whether Alastair actually has some sort of crush on him, but he definitely has some kind of sick, perverted obsession, and that’s enough to throw up red flags in Dean’s head. He has to put an end to this, and fast. Before Castiel gets hurt.

                Dean knows intimately how far Alastair will take things. What he’s capable of.

                Dean has to do something. He just doesn’t know what. Or even if he _can_. Every time he looks at Alastair, or thinks about him, Dean breaks out in a cold sweat and his hands shake. How is he supposed to confront Al when he reacts this way at even the mere thought of him?

                But there are more important things to consider here. Alastair is a threat to Castiel’s safety, that much Dean knows for sure. And if there’s one thing that beats out the fear Dean has of Alastair, it’s the anger he feels that Al thinks he has the right to come after Castiel the way he has been. To threaten and stalk him like Castiel told Dean he has been.

                Dean keeps his eyes locked on Alastair’s, looking straight at him, giving his best Dean Winchester pissed-off-alpha-male glare, which he’s been told is actually quite terrifying. He feels a small curl of satisfaction beneath his nausea when Alastair’s eyebrows raise in surprise at Dean’s boldness. Ever since the incident at Ghost Town, Dean hasn’t been able to hold Alastair’s gaze for more than three seconds at any given time, but here he is staring him down, his anger beating out the usual fear and sickness.

                The moment Alastair gets over the initial surprise, though, a sharp smile curls his thin lips, and he has the audacity to look amused.

                Before Dean knows what he’s doing, he’s stopped walking, Castiel pulled to a halt next to him by their hands still connected between them. Dean realizes he’s gripping Cas’s hand much tighter than he means to, fury warring with nausea inside him, and he eases up his hold just a bit.

                “Dean?” Castiel asks, glancing at Dean’s face and following his eyes towards where Alastair is sitting there grinning at them at The Docks.

                Dean doesn’t say anything. His throat has locked up, fear warring with anger warring with sickness inside him. He doesn’t know if he can do this, but damn it, he has to try. For Cas. He has to get the fuck over what happened at Ghost Town and protect Castiel from Alastair.

                “Dean,” Cas says again, squeezing his hand a little and stepping in between him and The Docks, placing his free hand on the side of Dean’s face. The touch jolts Dean back to reality and he blinks, looking at Castiel.

                And if he needed anything to remind him of what’s at stake here, it’s the sight of Castiel’s round blue eyes in the cold morning light, gazing at him with so much understanding that it’s almost like Cas is reading his mind. Dean blinks at him for a moment, letting some of the fear bleed out of his system, and then swallows, letting go of Castiel’s hand.

                “I’ll be right back,” he says, forcing himself to step away, “Stay here.”

                “Dean, wait,” Castiel protests, but Dean is already walking towards The Docks, his legs carrying him before his mind has caught up. He glances back once to make sure Cas hasn’t moved, and finds him standing there hugging himself awkwardly in the cold, watching after him.

                Dean swallows and continues walking, closing the distance between himself and The Docks much faster than he thought he was capable of. Crowley, Zach, and Gordon don’t notice his approach until he’s already stepping up in front of Alastair, but Al is just sitting there smiling at him, stubbing his cigarette out against the side of the rock he’s sitting on as if preparing for a fight.

                Dean stops in front of him, frozen in place, staring at Al for several long, silent moments. He doesn’t really have a plan, doesn’t really know what he’s going to do. He has no idea how to threaten a psychopath like Alastair, has no idea what to say that will make him leave Castiel alone. But he has to try.

                Alastair sits there silently, grinning smugly, like he knows just how fucking hard this is for Dean right now. Dean is fighting the nausea spinning in his gut, fighting the fear and disgust. It’s about time he got the fuck over what happened anyway.

                Swallowing, he levels Alastair with his signature glare. It’s an effortless look, and he takes smug satisfaction in the faltering of Alastair’s smile, the surprise registering subtly in his eyes when he realizes Dean isn’t backing down this time like he usually does.

                “I’m only gonna say this once,” Dean snarls, and he’s actually really proud that he keeps his voice a low, even growl, none of the residual fear and disgust translating over into his words, “Stay away from him.”

                Alastair’s smug grin fades from his face, and he just stares back at Dean. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, and Dean hopes that’s a good sign. Hopes that this mean Alastair gets the picture, and won’t mess with Cas.

                But something in the blank look he’s giving Dean makes Dean think that this isn’t over.

                Still, he just glares at Al for a moment longer, and then grits his teeth, turning away and walking back over to where Castiel is still standing, waiting for him. Behind him, he hears Gordon asking what the hell that was all about, but he ignores it and just takes Castiel’s hand again, walking towards the school.

                He glances back towards The Docks once before pushing his way inside, and finds Alastair watching after them, an unreadable expression on his face. For some reason, that blank look worries Dean more than Alastair’s smug smile or angry glare ever could.

                Dean tries to shake off the trembling in his hands, the sickness in his gut, as he walks hand in hand with Castiel to Cas’s locker. They receive the usual curious stares from other students as they walk together. Most of the student body hasn’t yet gotten used to the fact that Dean Winchester, with his dangerous reputation and all-around label of fuck-up, has gone soft for Castiel Novak, the quiet new boy in town. A bully and his victim ending up together. It’s like the punch line for a bad joke.

                When they reach Cas’s locker, Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand so that he can open it. Cas looks over at him as he pulls the metal door open. “Are you alright?” he asks, in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer to that question.

                Dean leans one shoulder against the lockers, trying to breathe even and restore his relatively good mood from the walk to school today. He looks down at the pictures on the inside of Castiel’s locker door, trailing his fingers over that old photograph of Castiel with Anna in Arizona. He smiles a little, trying to let the tension drain from his system, and looks back up at Cas.

                “Yeah,” he replies, and he has no idea if he’s lying or not, “Let’s just get through today.”

                The corner of Cas’s mouth lifts in a small smile, and he stuffs a few notebooks into his backpack before closing his locker door. Then he steps forward, and Dean gladly accepts the small, gentle kiss Castiel presses to his lips, closing his eyes and banishing all thoughts of Alastair for now. He already has Sammy’s crisis to deal with, he doesn’t know how many issues he can handle all at once.

                He just hopes to god that Alastair backs the fuck off. It’s all getting a little old and exhausting.

                When Cas pulls away from the kiss, Dean leans forward and captures his lips again, startling a small laugh out of him, and then they pull away for good. Castiel reaches up and places a hand on the side of Dean’s face, sweeping his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone, and Dean can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed that there are people who can see them right now. He leans slightly into the touch, wishing they could just skip school for the day and go back to Castiel’s house, fall into his bed, and forget about the world for a little while.

                It’s funny that he can adore someone so much after so little time together.

                “See you at lunch?” Cas asks softly, and Dean smiles, opening his eyes that he hadn’t realized he’d closed.

                “Yeah,” he replies, “I’ll be there.”

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel spends two hours on a video chat with Charlie the following night, listening to her painstakingly instruct him on what to wear on his date with Dean. It’s not like this is their _first_ date or anything, but it’s their first date where they’re actually going out somewhere instead of staying and cooking dinner at Castiel’s house. So Charlie, of course, had insisted on choosing Castiel’s wardrobe.

                Castiel is beginning to regret letting her do so.

                He eyes himself in his mirror, smoothing his hand down the rough fabric of his cheap, gray tie that’s a little too snug around his neck for comfort. Charlie hadn’t taken no for an answer when he’d carried his computer around his room with her face on the screen, showing her all the clothes he has and allowing her to pick his black button-down shirt, this gray tie, and dark wash jeans with Converse. When Castiel had insisted that he’d never dress this way by himself, Charlie had snorted and said, “That’s the _point_ , Cas.” and left it at that.

                When seven-thirty rolls around, the time Dean said he’d be picking Cas up, Castiel farewells Charlie and ends the video call, closing his computer and stepping back up to the mirror to eye his clothing again. He feels ridiculous, but it was either these clothes, or his usual souvenir shop attire, and Dean had said he’s taking Cas somewhere special tonight.

                Grumbling to himself, he reaches up and undoes the first two buttons on the shirt, pulling on the knot of the tie so it hangs looser around his neck, leaving a smooth triangle of skin showing below his throat. If he’s going to wear these clothes, he’s at least going to be comfortable.

                He stuffs his wallet and phone into his pocket, as well as Dean’s birthday present that he’d picked up last night from town with Pamela’s help, and then stands there in his room and waits. He’s halfway tempted to change into something more like what he would normally wear, but he knows Charlie would tear him a new one if she found out…which she _would_ find out. She has her ways.

                He’s busy trying to smooth down his wild, messy hair into something a bit more managed-looking when he hears a knock on the front door downstairs fifteen minutes later. He knows it’s Dean, not because he’s expecting him, but because of the way he knocks. A heavy, hollow series of thumps. It’s crazy that Cas can tell just by the way he knocks now. It’s crazy that he can like someone this much after so little time.

                He flicks off his light and heads downstairs, picking up the pace when Dean knocks again, drumming out some solo from a rock song that Cas doesn’t recognize until Castiel opens the front door.

                As always, seeing Dean is like biting into a watermelon in the desert, refreshing and cool and sweet. A big smile spreads across Dean’s face when he sees Castiel, his green eyes lighting up, and they spend the next few minutes kissing shamelessly right there on the front porch. When they finally break apart, both of them breathing roughly and half-hard in their pants already, Dean chuckles.

                “Sorry I'm late," he says, "Had to wait for my dad to pass out."

                Cas shakes his head. "It's alright. Charlie had me trapped picking out clothes."

                Dean pulls away and looks down at Castiel's outfit, grinning and fiddling with the end of the tie. "You look hot," he comments, nodding in approval before fisting the tie in his hand and reeling Castiel in by it for another brief kiss.

                Castiel blushes furiously, still not used to being called _hot_ by anyone, but he kisses Dean back automatically. "You look very nice too Dean," he mumbles against Dean's lips. Dean looks the same as he always does, in ratty jeans, boots, and a ridiculous number of shirts layered over his broad torso, but he _always_ looks very nice to Castiel, so it's an honest observation. Dean just snorts.

                "You ready to go?" he asks.

                "Yes," Cas replies, stepping out of the house and closing the door, "Where are we going?"

                Dean twirls his car keys on his finger, and it's the first time Castiel notices the big black beast parked on the curb in front of the house. "An old friend of mine owns a Cajun place in town. Thought we'd go there, if that's cool?"

                Cas nods distractedly, eyeing the car appreciatively as they approach it. "Of course, I'm okay with anything," he replies, cocking his head to the side as he studies the shiny black paint of the passenger door, "This is the Impala."

                Dean grins again, running his hand lovingly over the hood of the car as he rounds it to the driver's side. "This is my baby," he confirms, "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

                Castiel hums. "Yes, she is," he replies, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at the adoration in Dean's voice for an inanimate object. He pulls open the door, listening to the squeak and groan of it as he does, and climbs inside, settling on the bench seat.

                It's surprisingly warm out tonight compared to how it's been for the past week with all the snow. The sky is clear and the weather mild enough that Castiel doesn't even need a jacket. Dean, of course, is still wearing his big leather jacket despite the weather, and when he slips into the driver's seat, there's a big smile on his face and his cheeks are flushed with happy warmth.

                "You're in a good mood," Castiel comments as Dean starts up the car, the engine roaring to life.

                Dean glances over at him, his smile not fading for a second. "Feels good driving her again," he replies, "I haven't gotten to in a while." Castiel nods, settling back into the cool leather seats, and Dean pops in a cassette tape, Metallica crackling out of the speakers, a song Cas recognizes from the music Dean loaded onto his iPod.

                They both wave to Anna in Missouri's living room window as they drive away, the tires squealing a little on the asphalt as Dean whoops and laughs, pushing the Impala to go as fast as he can get it on the quiet neighborhood street. He slows down as they get closer to town where there are more pedestrians, and it only takes about ten minutes before Dean is expertly parallel parking between two cars on the curb in front of a small restaurant on Third Street with lights strung up outside and a big fireplace visible through the windows.

                Dinner is amazing, better than Castiel expected it to be. He and Dean both order special Cajun burgers, and Dean's old friend, a big burly guy named Benny, comes out and sits with them for a few minutes, chatting in a deep southern drawl that reminds Castiel a bit of Dean's gruff voice, and seems remarkably out of place in a small town in Vermont. Benny is the head chef, and also the owner of the place, and cooks their food himself over a hot stove that they can see through an opening in the wall towards the back.

                Dean tells Castiel all about how he met Benny six years ago when Benny saved his ass from a group of college students in town from Johnson State. Dean had only been thirteen, but was still picking fights with guys years older than him. Benny had broken up the fight just in time and taken Dean to the hospital, and they'd been friends ever since, despite the fact that Benny is ten years Dean's senior.

                Castiel listens intently to the story, drinking it all in. He wants to know everything about Dean. Any time Dean tells him something, a personal story, Castiel files it away in his mind as yet another thing he knows about this beautiful green eyed boy. The more he knows, the better he feels, and the more his adoration for Dean grows.

                They talk about random things throughout the meal, and again, Castiel is surprised at how easy it is to talk to Dean, how there aren't any awkward pauses or straining for conversation topics. It's all so easy. Castiel has never met anyone as easy to talk to as Dean, as easy to be around.

                When they finish their food, Castiel pays the bill, shooting Dean down when he insists on paying for himself, saying that it's Dean's birthday dinner, and he's not allowed to pay for himself on his birthday. Then Castiel blushingly presents Dean with his birthday gift, chewing on his lip as Dean tears open the small package and pulls out the knife Castiel picked up for him yesterday. A knife had just seemed like something Dean would like.

                Pamela had shown him the best shop to go to where they sold all sorts of really nice knives and guns in town. The moment he'd laid eyes on this one, with its gleaming black obsidian handle and a stripe of emerald green rock in the blade, he'd known this was the one. He tells Dean that it reminded him of his eyes, the green, and Dean blushes furiously, leaning across the table and drawing Castiel into a kiss by a hand around his tie again, kissing him until Benny hollers from the kitchen to _get a room brother_! Dean just flips him off with a laugh.

                When they leave, Dean pats his pockets and curses, saying they have to stop at a gas station to pick up a pack of cigarettes since he forgot his own. There's a convenience store only a block away, and when they get there, Castiel wanders around while Dean waits in line behind a gentleman who looks homeless and is busy trying to cash a bunch of lottery tickets worth only about a dollar each.

                Cas comes across a section with little boxes of condoms and lubricants in pocket-sized tubes towards the back of the store. He blushes, despite the fact that he's alone in the aisle and Dean is distracted buying smokes up front. Castiel stares at all the little bottles, remembering his conversation with Dean the other night about investing in some lube should they continue their sexual escapades.

                His dick twitches in his pants at just the thought of it, but he's still unsure. Are they even going to do anything tonight like that? He has no idea what Dean has planned. Maybe Dean already has lube? Castiel chews on his lip and stares at all the different selections. There are about a dozen different types to choose from.

                Why not, right?

                He glances towards the front of the store, and then reaches out, selecting a red bottle of strawberry scented lubricant from the middle shelf, small enough to fit in his pocket, and then quickly grabs a pack of gum from the next shelf over as an excuse to buy something.

                He's bright red by the time he walks up to the front of the store, keeping the lube out of sight. He doesn't know why he's so embarrassed to be buying it when he and Dean already discussed it, but he just is. He's _a blushing virgin_ , as Dean would say.

                Dean glances over at him when Cas steps up to the counter, noticing how red Castiel is. "You okay?" Dean asks, leaning in and pressing his soft lips to Castiel's red-hot cheek in a quick kiss.

                Castiel nods and swallows, blushing impossibly harder. "Yes," he replies, setting the pack of gum on the counter but keeping the lube in his hand and out of sight hesitantly. The lady behind the counter eyes them and smiles a little, looking politely away and scanning the bar code on the gum.

                Dean studies his face for a moment, and then just shakes his head and snorts. "You're so weird sometimes, you know that?"

                Castiel glances at him, and can't help the tiny smile that graces his lips when he looks into those green, green eyes. "So I've heard," he replies.

                Dean smiles and tears the plastic wrap off his new pack of cigarettes. "I'm gonna go grab a smoke really quick, meet you out there," he says, kissing Castiel's red cheek once more and then turning on a heel, tapping a cigarette out of the little pack and shouldering his way out the front door, a little ding from the bell above it signaling his departure.

                "Will this be all?" the cashier lady asks, nodding towards the pack of gum, and Castiel swallows, averting his eyes as he places the little bottle of lube on the counter.

                "This too," he says, the tips of his ears glowing red with his embarrassment.

                To her credit, the cashier lady barely blinks, just scans the lube and lets him know his total price. He swipes his card and pockets the lube and gum, and glances up at the lady as she hands him his receipt.

                "You two make a lovely couple," she comments with a genuine smile, and Castiel gives her a small smile in return, nodding awkwardly and thanking her in a half-mumble before turning and walking out of the store, throwing his receipt away on the way out so Dean doesn't happen to catch sight of it and sees the lube listed on there.

                Dean is leaning against the side of the Impala outside under the fluorescent outdoor lights near the gas pumps, sucking on his cigarette. He exhales smoke from his nostrils as Castiel walks up and leans against the side of the car next to him, trying desperately to make the blush on his cheeks go away.

                "I figured we could go find a clearing in the woods and look at the stars for a bit," Dean says, squinting at the night sky beyond the cover of the gas station, "This is probably one of the last cloudless nights we'll have here for a couple months."

                Cas swallows and glances at him, before blushing again and looking away, towards the windows of the convenience store where the cashier lady is flipping through a magazine at the counter. "That sounds nice," he says, pulling in a quiet breath, feeling the bottle of lube pressing into his thigh from his pocket. He gulps.

                _God_ , why is he so embarrassed?

                Dean holds out his cigarette. "Want some?" he asks, grinning mischievously, and Castiel eyes the smoke for a moment. Dean's eyebrows shoot up in surprise when Cas takes the offered cigarette, pulling in a small drag. It tastes a little minty, and he remembers Dean mentioning once that he smokes menthols. It tastes like Dean's mouth, and only serves to turn Castiel on a bit.

                He coughs a little on the exhale and hands it back to Dean. "Didn't think you were actually going to," Dean comments with a chuckle, "I feel like I'm corrupting you."

                Cas huffs a little laugh as he feels a tingle in the back of his head from the nicotine, which works a little bit in calming down the blush on his face. He feels his cheeks start to cool off. "I would rather be corrupted by you than anyone else," he replies honestly.

                Dean shrugs, looking down to hide the small smile that graces his lips at that, taking another drag. He finishes his cigarette quickly and then walks it over to the ashtray on top of the trash can near the front door, stubbing it out in the little gray rocks before walking back to the car and climbing inside.

                They drive to Hautley's Bend, and Dean parks in the shadows near the public restrooms, stepping out and opening the trunk, pulling out a big, thick blanket and a couple flashlights. He hands one flashlight to Cas and then closes the trunk, locking the car and heading towards the woods. There are no worn paths through the trees here, and Dean admits that he really doesn't know where he's going, that he's just winging it, and Castiel just trusts him and follows him through the dark.

                They wait until they're deep enough in the woods before turning on their flashlights, just so no one sees them and calls the police for any reason. Technically, it's not illegal to be walking through the woods at night, but Dean says they shouldn't take any chances just in case they happen to stumble upon someone's property out here.

                It's a little warmer in the woods, and they duck branches and weave their way around trees and shrubs as they go, searching for any sort of clearing where they can lay out the blanket and look at the stars.

                But after a half an hour of searching, they stumble across a large barn instead.

                Dean just walks up to it and glances back at Cas, grinning mischievously and lowering his flashlight, looking for a way to break into the barn. Castiel chews on his lip nervously and peers around the side of the barn. A few dozen yards through the trees, he can see distant lights from a house, presumably the owner of this barn, and he regards them with caution.            

                "Dean, maybe we shouldn't," he whispers, despite the fact that anyone in that house wouldn't be able to hear them anyway, even if they spoke at normal volume.

                Dean snorts. "Aw, c'mon, don't chicken out now," he says, keeping his voice low and peeking around the side of the barn at the house through the trees as well, "Besides, it's probably warmer inside the barn than it is out here."

                Cas purses his lips, looking at the old barn with trepidation pooling in his belly, and then jumps a little when Dean's hands settle on his hips from behind. Dean's warm mouth latches onto the hinge of his jaw then, nipping lightly before he kisses his way down the side of Cas's neck. Cas squirms a little and Dean chuckles.

                "Come on," he whispers, "I think the entrance is over here." He takes Castiel's hand and pulls him along to the other side of the barn. The large front doors are chained shut, but there's a window next to them. Dean hoists himself up and kicks away a couple of the planks nailed over the window. They both pause and listen for any signs of life from the house, but it's far enough away for them to make a good amount of noise without being heard.

                Dean climbs in first, and then Castiel, pulling himself up and tumbling through the window somewhat gracelessly, landing in a pile of dirt just inside. Dean laughs and shines his flashlight in Cas's face, pulling him up from where he's sprawled on the ground. Cas feels a small sense of smugness about the fact that his nice clothes are now dusty and dirty. He's going to be sure to mention that to Charlie later.

                They wander into the shadows of the barn, shining their flashlights around. It doesn't look like anyone has been in here for a while, and the stalls are empty of any animals. There are a couple work benches near the back that have what looks like piles and piles of old computer equipment on them, pieces and parts of hard drives and old, black monitors from the 90's. Dean saunters over there and fiddles with an old keyboard while Castiel messes with a pile of ropes and horse riding equipment near the second stall.

                "Have you ever been here before?" he asks Dean, picking up an old, worn cowboy boot with a spur on the heel.

                Dean accidentally drops something over where he is near the table. It clatters loudly, and he swears softly, picking it back up and replacing it on the counter. "No, but I think I know where we are," he replies, "There's a guy who owns a property in the backwoods near this place my friends and I used to go. I think this might be it."

                His voice sounds a little weird, and Castiel shines his flashlight over towards him. Dean's back is turned to him. "What's the place you and your friends used to go?"

                Dean stops moving for a moment, his back still to Castiel, hand hovering over a pile of dusty floppy disks. "It's called Ghost Town," he finally replies, his voice a little dull, "I don't go there anymore."

                Castiel cocks his head to the side, and he wants to ask why, but the change in Dean's voice makes him hold his tongue. He wanders across the barn to Dean's side, feasting his eyes upon the computer equipment. Dean clears his throat a little and looks up, shining his flashlight towards the ceiling. There's a loft to the side, with a small wooden ladder leading up to it, and Dean grins a bit.

                "Check it out," he says, nodding towards the loft. There's a large skylight just above the loft, glassless and open, the starry night sky visible just beyond it.

                Cas huffs a small laugh. "I believe we found our clearing," he comments, and Dean glances over at him, grinning widely. He grabs Castiel's hand.

                "Come on," he says, pulling him across the barn. He hands Cas the blanket and his flashlight, climbing up the creaking ladder into the loft. When he gets up there, Castiel throws him the blanket, and then each flashlight one by one before climbing up there himself. Dean fans out the blanket, settling it right beneath the skylight. The whole loft is cushioned a bit with old, stale-smelling hay. It's squishy and soft like a bad mattress underneath Castiel's Converse, and he falls back onto the blanket after Dean gets it smoothed out.

                Dean grins and flops back beside him, both of them on their backs, shoulder to shoulder, staring up through the skylight at the stars. This deep in the woods, where no lights from the heart of town reach, the stars are vivid and bright, a stripe of the Milky Way visible past the silhouetted tops of the trees.

                Castiel sneezes once from all the dust they kicked up climbing up here, and Dean snorts, turning off the flashlights and setting them aside before snaking one hand down and twining his fingers with Castiel's. Cas automatically holds his hand in return, a little flutter in his stomach. He's really beginning to like the way Dean's not shy about holding his hand anymore.

                The sides of their heads touch a bit as they lay there in silence for a while, just looking at the stars, listening to the sounds of their own breathing and the creaking of the trees outside. It's the most peaceful Castiel has felt in a long time, pleasantly full from dinner, the smell of Dean laying next to him, the warmth of his body, the quiet of the night. He forces his mind not to wander, not to think about school work that he has to do, or whether Anna is okay at Missouri's ( _of course she's okay, it's Missouri_ ), or about Alastair and his cold, cold glare.

                He just focuses on the sound of Dean breathing next to him, on the heavy feeling of his calloused hand, on the way the stars twinkle like Dean's eyes when the sunlight catches on them just right.

                Dean starts humming randomly an immeasurable number of minutes later, and Castiel realizes belatedly that he's humming _Learning To Fly_ by Pink Floyd. He smiles stupidly, holding Dean's hand tighter, and listens to his rough voice hum its way through the song a couple times before moving on to _Traveling Riverside Blues_ by Led Zeppelin. Castiel is proud to say that he recognizes each song as Dean hums it.

                Eventually, they talk. Not about anything particularly important, but they just...talk. It's nice. Castiel tells Dean about a prank that Gabriel pulled on one of his teachers in school this week, and about Gabe's plans for the best senior prank _in history_ , to take place in early May. Dean tells Cas about all the other senior pranks that have taken place over the years he's been at the high school, including a staged alien abduction that made the local news.

                They talk about how long Bobby's shop has been there, and how Bobby and Ellen have become sort of surrogate parents to Dean and Sam, the reason behind which Castiel doesn't pry. Dean will tell him, when he's ready. Cas says that he needs to meet Ellen still, that she sounds like a wonderful woman, and Dean agrees with a smile, saying they should go over to the Singer's house for dinner some night. Dean mentions that Sam wants to hang out with Castiel more too, and that he's dating this sweet girl named Jess whom Dean has yet to meet.

                Castiel loses track of time, laying there talking to Dean. The moon appears in the skylight of the barn as the night draws on, just a tiny sliver in the sky like a fingernail clipping, barely giving off any light. Castiel almost wishes that it were full, just so he could see Dean's face. As it is, he can only see Dean's silhouette in the darkness. He watches him, watches the outline of his full lips moving as he speaks, thinking to himself that Dean is more gorgeous than any night sky he'll ever see. He blushes as soon as these thoughts cross his mind, because they're overwhelmingly cheesy and embarrassing.

                Castiel reaches up and loosens his tie a bit more, uncomfortable with the feeling of it resting against his throat. Dean glances over at the movement and chuckles a little, rolling onto his side and resting his hand on Castiel's chest, fiddling with the tie, rubbing it between his large fingers.

                "You should wear this more often, it looks really nice," he says, and Cas huffs a breath.

                "I forgot I owned it until Charlie forced me to wear it tonight," he admits, "It's definitely different from my regular attire."

                He can't see it, but he senses Dean smiling in the darkness. "I like it," he says, and Castiel eyes the shadow of Dean's face. Even though they can't see each other, they still stare at each other for a long moment.

                And then they kiss. Of course they kiss.

                Castiel has no idea who kisses who first, but he's already half-hard in his pants just from being _near_ Dean, and he already knew this was going to happen when they came out here. It's like an addiction, kissing Dean, touching him, holding him.

                He feels Dean smile into the kiss and Castiel sighs, letting his eyes fall closed as Dean rolls on top of him halfway, slotting a thigh between his. Castiel groans a little when he feels Dean's strong thigh nudge against his half-hard cock through his jeans, and the unintentional friction only serves to make his blood rush southward. Dean sucks in a sharp breath when he feels Castiel's burgeoning erection press against his leg, and he deepens the kiss, his warm, soft tongue sliding effortlessly into Castiel's mouth like it belongs there.

                As far as Cas is concerned, it does.

                He places one hand on the side of Dean’s neck, curling his fingers around the back to hold Dean’s face to his. His other hand comes up and presses against the small of Dean’s back, forcing a gasp out of Dean as Castiel pulls him down fully on top of him. Dean allows himself to be pressed tightly against Castiel, and he slides more purposely on top of him, bracketing Castiel’s head in with his arms while they kiss.   

                These are the sort of kisses that Castiel craves, the slow languid drag of their lips, with the occasional teasing nip of teeth, the curl of their tongues sliding smoothly together. He plunges his tongue upwards into Dean’s mouth the moment he gets the chance, and it tears a low groan from Dean’s throat, the vibration of it rumbling against Castiel’s lips. He smiles and does it again, all but fucking his tongue up into Dean’s mouth, causing a shiver to roll through both of them at the same time at the implication.

                Castiel presses his hand more firmly against Dean’s back, digging his fingertips bluntly into Dean’s skin through his shirt, pulling him down more roughly against him. Dean takes the hint and slides the rest of the way on top of Castiel. Cas spreads his legs and allows Dean to settle between them, a heavy, comforting weight, all warmth and hard muscles and soft skin beneath layers of fabric. It’s funny that Castiel feels so _at home_ when he’s beneath Dean like this, safe and warm and kept.

                It’s funny how much things can change in such a short amount of time.

                The next time Castiel fucks his tongue upwards into Dean’s mouth, he rolls his hips at the same time, not-so-subtly hinting at what he really craves. The thrust startles a stuttered gasp out of Dean, and he meets the roll of Castiel’s hips with one of his own, his answering erection pressing tantalizingly against the zipper of Castiel’s jeans. It really doesn’t take much to get them going now that they’re more comfortable with each other.

                Castiel wastes no time in sliding his hands down and underneath Dean’s shirt. As always, Dean stiffens a little as Castiel touches his bare skin, his kisses faltering briefly, but Castiel keeps his hands mostly clear of the mottled skin on Dean’s side that he knows are scars. Dean still hasn’t told him where they’re from, nor has Castiel ever actually _seen_ them. But he knows they’re there, and he’ll respect that there are some things that are better left unremarked upon in the heat of the moment.

                He nips at Dean’s plump lower lip to pull his mind back into the mood, and Dean doesn’t resist when Castiel pulls at his leather jacket. Dean breaks off the kiss long enough to shed the jacket, his flannel, and his t-shirt, leaving him bare, just a shadow, a silhouette of well-formed muscle in the darkness. While Dean is busy shedding his layers, Castiel starts working at the buttons of his own shirt, cursing internally because there are _too many_ of them, and it’s taking _too long_ to get out of his shirt.

                Dean seems to realize his frustration and laughs, blanketing himself back over Castiel and mashing their mouths together again. As they kiss, Dean pushes Cas’s hands away and starts working the buttons of his shirt open one by one for him. Castiel is completely okay with that, and busies his own hands in smoothing down Dean’s overheated bare skin, sliding one palm down his flank, the other up along his shoulder, gripping it tight and pulling Dean down on top of him.

                Dean finally gets Castiel’s shirt open, but doesn’t bother to remove either it or Castiel’s tie, which hangs loosely around his neck. Instead, Dean’s calloused, rough hands slide under the parted shirt and, to Cas’s shock, immediately start thumbing at his nipples, one in each hand. Dean grins slyly into the kiss as Castiel’s back arches off the blanket with a gasp, which inadvertently forces their groins closer, hard dicks shoved together through their jeans. Both of them groan in unison, and then it’s like a gun went off and the race has begun.

                It takes them no more than thirty seconds before they’ve wrestled their way out of their jeans and shoes, never once breaking away from their sloppy, fumbled kisses. Castiel ends up with his boxers halfway down his hips, while Dean lays there with his jeans hanging off one ankle. But both of them are too caught up in the lust to care.

                They press themselves together, all heat and ragged breathing and sweat prickling in the corners of their moving bodies, erections separated by only the thin fabric of their boxers, damp with the beginnings of precome. It takes them several tries, but then they set up a steady pace, thrusting against each other just like they’ve done before, half-shed clothes getting in the way, Dean’s cock tucked in the crease between Castiel’s hip and thigh, and Castiel’s rubbing up against Dean’s leg.

                Castiel’s fingertips and toes are tingling with need and they haven’t even been going at it for more than ten minutes. He weaves both his hands through Dean’s hair for a few minutes, gripping the soft strands and tugging Dean’s head at a better angle to plunge his tongue inside Dean’s parted lips. With every tug of his hair, Dean groans and huffs stuttered gasps, like he enjoys the sting in his scalp. For all Castiel knows, Dean _does_ enjoy the little bit of pain. They haven’t exactly taken the time to discuss kinks or anything this early in their sexual relationship, but Cas is willing to bet, based on Dean’s reactions, that he doesn’t mind a bit of pain here and there.

                Hell, Castiel doesn’t mind doling it out every once in a while. Has become addicted to the feeling of holding Dean down, or pinning him against a wall.

                In a way, he feels a little sick and wrong, getting off on overpowering someone else like that, but at the same time, he’s heard of dominance being a very common kink.

                He really needs to do some research.

                But for now, he’s content to just let himself be carried away in the moment.

                He slides his hands down out of Dean’s hair, smoothes his palms down Dean’s back, his muscles rolling and tensing with every thrust of his hips. He forces himself not to hesitate when he reaches the base of Dean’s spine, forces himself to just keep going, sliding his hands down and cupping the firm globes of Dean’s ass through his boxers. Dean stiffens again, shivers, hesitates, and then continues to kiss him.

                Castiel knows there’s fear again, knows that this is the point at which Dean usually starts to get scared. He still has no idea why that is, but he proceeds with a bit of caution. He moves slow. Dean doesn’t pull away, or protest, only the finest of trembling in his shoulders, so Castiel kneads the flesh of his ass with his fingers a bit, easing him into it again just like before.

                Dean huffs a little shaky laugh against Castiel’s lips and pushes his ass back into Castiel’s grip, silently urging for more. At the same time, one of Dean’s hands moves down and, without hesitation, slips under the elastic waistband of Castiel’s boxers and wraps around Cas’s straining dick. Cas arches for the second time off of the blanket, moaning loudly, the noise swallowed by Dean’s mouth pressed to his. Dean just holds Castiel’s hard cock, teasing the sensitive area just beneath the head with his fingertips before sliding a thumb over the leaking slit, gathering precome to rub up and down his whole shaft.

                Cas shakily moves his hands up to the waistband of Dean’s boxers and pushes them down. Dean shivers but lifts his hips enough for Cas to push them off. They break apart their kiss just long enough for Dean to toe his jeans off of his ankle and then kick his boxers away, finally completely bare on top of Castiel, save for his necklace, the elephant hair bracelet, and an Ace bandage wrapped around his arm again that Castiel politely ignores.

                Cas reaches down and pulls his own boxers off, and at the same time squirms around awkwardly, wrestling his way out of his button-down shirt, so he’s left in nothing but his gray tie, which is hanging off to the side, draped over one shoulder. Dean looks down at him in the dark for a moment, picking the tie off his shoulder and fiddling with it in his hand. He’s hovering over Cas, and when he finally settles down against him again, there’s nothing between them but miles of soft, warm skin, heavy muscles, and the hard throb of their erections lining up side by side.

                Both of them groan in unison again, and Castiel sucks in a few much-needed gasps of air, feeling dizzy with lust. He doesn’t know what they’re going to do this time, doesn’t know how many different ways two guys can have sex, but he trusts that Dean will lead the way. As Dean starts to roll his hips again, Castiel does the same. Dean’s hand tightens on the tie, winding it around his hand a few times until his fist is at the base of Castiel’s throat. It’s not constricting his air or anything, but Castiel feels his dick twitch at the way he can feel his frantic heartbeat against Dean’s knuckles.

                When they kiss again, it’s like setting off firecrackers, and Castiel thinks he can see stars on the inside of his eyelids before he realizes that his eyes are open and he’s actually just looking up at the night sky through the skylight. He wishes he could see Dean’s face, the red flush of arousal and the sparks in his green eyes. He wishes he could count those freckles on his cheeks and shoulders and chest as they move together, but for now, this will do. This will do.

                Their thrusting grows rough and erratic as both of them draw closer to climax, and Castiel can feel blots of Dean’s precome on his lower belly where the tip of Dean’s leaking dick keeps bumping up against the soft skin. For some reason, it turns Castiel on even more, and he shifts upwards a bit, squirming beneath Dean and winding one arm around Dean’s shoulders to get a better angle. His movement causes Dean’s dick to slip southward, and both of them gasp sharply when the tip of his dick bumps up against Castiel’s perineum, just below his balls.

                Cas freezes very suddenly, his body going completely rigid, because all of the sudden, the sheer amount of _want_ and _need_ for Dean to be inside him is practically overwhelming. Dean stops moving too when he feels the way Castiel’s entire body goes rigid, and he starts to pull away, to move his dick back to where it was, an apology on his lips.

                Castiel stops him with a hand on his hip. “Wait,” he gasps, breathing raggedly, his virgin hole clenching with the sudden desire to be filled, another pearly bead of precome rolling off the tip of his own dick at just the thought of having Dean inside him.

                Dean stops moving, looking down at him in the dark. “You okay?” he asks, his voice strained, body shaking minutely.

                Cas swallows hard, staring up at him, his brain moving at a thousand miles an hour, thinking over all the pros and cons of letting Dean fuck him right here and now, take his virginity, give him something he’s never had before. He’s not even sure if Dean would want to. They’ve never talked about it. Cas hasn’t even really thought about it all that much.

                But as he lays here, he can only think of pros, no cons. He likes Dean, _a lot_. And isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? To lose your virginity to someone you like that much? Whom you trust, and adore, and feel safe around?

                He swallows again, convulsively, and then pulls in a shaky breath. “I…I want to,” he says, his voice seeming overly loud in the quiet darkness. He can almost see Dean’s forehead creasing in confusion.

                “What?”

                Castiel huffs a little, actually blushing in the dark. “I want to…I mean, I want _you_ to.”

                Dean’s silent for a moment, but Castiel can actually feel the change in his body when it sinks in what Castiel means. He hears Dean gulp. “Are you sure?” he asks hesitantly, “We…we don’t have to Cas.”

                Castiel actually chuckles a little at the hesitancy in Dean’s voice. “I want you to,” he repeats, and then he blushes a little and adds, “Only if you want to though.”

                Dean huffs a small, nervous laugh. “Of course I want to,” he says, “But are you ready? You’ve never done this before.”

                Cas actually rolls his eyes with a little snort. “Oh really? I didn’t know that.”

                Dean stutters a little and then snorts. “Smart ass,” he comments, and then more seriously adds, “But really, you’re sure?”

                Cas smiles a little, staring up at Dean’s darkened face, and then he winds a hand around the back of Dean’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss. It’s gentler than their kisses a moment ago, reassuring, and they only kiss for a couple of minutes before breaking away long enough for Castiel to breathe a small, “Yes.”

                Then they’re kissing again, working themselves up to the frantic pace they were at before. When Castiel starts to thrust upwards against Dean again, Dean reaches down and holds his hips in place, breaking away from the kiss once more.

                It seems to take him a great amount of effort to keep himself from thrusting down against Castiel like he wants to, and his voice shakes when he speaks. “If we’re doing this, we gotta take it slow though,” he says, “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

                Castiel shakes his head, placing his hand on the side of Dean’s face and sweeping his thumb along Dean’s sharp cheekbone. “You won’t hurt me,” he says, and he’s surprised at how confident he is in that statement.

                Dean chuckles a little. “Trust me,” he says, “We need to take it slow, okay?”

                Castiel nods, but he’s already arching his neck up again, recapturing Dean’s lips and kissing him deeply, sliding his tongue into Dean’s mouth and successfully cutting off anything else he might have been about to say. He drags a few more groans out of Dean’s throat, and one of Dean’s hands travels down again. Only this time, he passes Castiel’s straining dick, slides down past Castiel’s balls, and Castiel jolts and shivers when he feels a finger brush up against his entrance, gentle and warm. His hole clenches anyway in anticipation.

                When Dean breaks off the kiss again, Castiel groans in impatience, wiggling his hips in an attempt to get that finger inside him.

                “Hold on,” Dean says, pressing a hand to Castiel’s shoulder, his finger resting teasingly against Castiel’s entrance (which is, admittedly, torture).

                “What’s wrong?” Cas manages to gasp, gulping past his dry throat, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

                “I have a condom in my wallet, but we don’t have any lube. We can’t do this without lube Cas,” Dean says, his hand slipping out from between Cas’s legs again.

                Castiel feels himself blushing furiously, his whole face heating up. But underneath his sudden embarrassment, he feels a fresh wave of arousal and a flare of thankfulness that they happened to stop at that gas station tonight and Castiel decided to buy that lube.

                He can’t help it. He laughs.

                Dean cocks his head in confusion. “What’s so funny?” he asks.

                Castiel doesn’t stop laughing though, just rolls to the side, fishing around in the dark for his pants somewhere on the floor and fumbling for the bottle of lube in his pocket. When he presents it to Dean, Dean starts laughing too. “Where the hell’d you get this?”

                Castiel licks his dry lips, stifling his laughter. “I purchased it at the convenience store tonight,” he replies, “You said I should invest in some. Although, I didn’t realize we would be needing it tonight.”

                Dean snorts as he looks at the bottle, squinting at it in the darkness, barely enough moonlight to see. “Strawberry? Really Cas?” he chuckles.

                Castiel’s forehead creases in confusion. “It seemed better than the unscented brand.”

                Dean shakes his head, laughing quietly to himself. “No, no, you’re right, it’s better,” he says, leaning back over Cas and pecking him once on the lips, “It’s perfect.”

                Cas melts back into the blanket and smiles a little, his blush fading away from embarrassment, replaced with arousal as he hears Dean pop the lid open on the lube. There’s a gross squelching sound as he squirts some of it out onto his fingers, and the tangy smell of artificial strawberries fills the air, like cheap bubblegum. Castiel’s mouth waters.

                When it seems Dean has squeezed out enough lube, he closes the bottle again and sets it aside, and Castiel can hear him working the slippery gel over his fingers as he shifts down again, blanketing himself over Cas once more and pressing their mouths together. Castiel wants to grab him and hurry things along, but he doesn’t, heeding Dean’s warning about taking it slow. Instead, he lays there patiently, kissing Dean back as he feels Dean’s hand slipping between his thighs once more.

                When his blunt fingers brush against Castiel’s entrance, they’re wet and cold, and Cas gasps and shivers, clinging to Dean’s shoulders in anticipation. When the first finger slides inside him, Castiel’s whole body goes rigid, and he chokes on his moan, his mouth pressed tightly to Dean’s. It feels weird at first, but this isn’t the first time Dean has fingered him, so he halfway knows what to expect. They’d only had saliva last time, and Castiel is surprised at what a difference the lube makes. It warms quickly inside his body, and his hole clenches reflexively around the invading finger.

                Dean leaves it there for a moment, perfectly still, kissing Castiel while he waits for him to adjust. When Cas starts to wriggle his hips impatiently, Dean chuckles, and then pulls the finger out, thrusting it in and out a few times before removing it completely and adding a second. It burns a little this time with two of Dean’s thick fingers inside, but it feels good, and Castiel clings to him harder, groaning in time with each thrust that Dean’s fingers make, slipping past his tight rim.

                When Castiel is finally loose enough to add a third finger, he squeezes his eyes shut at the ache. Dean goes slow, but had to stop when his fingers are halfway inside because Cas is clenching up reflexively.

                “Ssh,” Dean whispers, brushing Castiel’s sweaty hair back from his forehead and kissing down the edge of his sharp jaw, “Just relax, you’re too tense.”

                Cas whimpers, pleasure warring with the burn of the fingers inside him, and he has to close his eyes and force his body to loosen up and relax. He’s rewarded with Dean whispering praise in his ear, and Dean’s teeth gently nipping at his earlobe as he pushes the three fingers the rest of the way inside Castiel’s body. Dean forms a cone shape with the fingers and thrusts them in and out a few times, using the roll of his own hips to push his hand in and out like a piston. His free hand tangles in Castiel’s hair, scraping gently along his scalp, soothing him, and Castiel melts back into the blanket, the burn easing between his legs and replaced by jolts of unfamiliar pleasure that come from somewhere deeper within.

                Dean is true to his word and takes his time. By the time he finally removes the fingers, Castiel is sweating and moaning and angling his hips upwards, ready for the real thing, and he and Dean lay there kissing for a few minutes like they can’t even help it. Cas’s hole flexes with the need to be filled again, and Dean quickly pulls their mouths apart, reaching over and grabbing his pants, fishing around for his wallet. He pulls out a condom and tears it open with his teeth (and Cas wishes it wasn’t so dark because he’d give anything to see Dean do that), rolling it onto his weeping dick. Then he reaches over and grabs the lube again, squirting just a bit more out onto his fingers and stroking his cock a few times, coating the condom with the strawberry gel.

                He wipes the rest near Castiel’s already-wet entrance, and then shifts down a little. Cas moans and jerks as the blunt head of Dean’s cock nudges his hole, catching on the rim. Dean pauses and looks down at him, both of them breathing raggedly.

                “You gotta tell me if it hurts, okay?” Dean whispers on the edge of an exhale, like he’s about out of his mind with lust, same as Castiel, “You ready?”

                Cas nods frantically, reaching down and grabbing Dean’s ass, one cheek in each hand, pulling him in. Dean lets out a surprised moan as the tip of his dick starts to slip inside. He pauses, holding himself over Castiel on shaking arms, and then lowers himself down onto one elbow, resting his hand on the side of Castiel’s face, the other holding onto Castiel’s sharp hipbone like a handlebar.

                And then he’s pressing in. Castiel forces himself to stay relaxed, to not clench up. Dean’s cock is a lot bigger than just three of his fingers, and that stretching burn comes back as he pushes in. He holds his breath for a moment, and then can’t anymore, and it all comes bursting out on a gasp.

                It’s only when the head of Dean’s thick cock pops inside him with an obscene wet squelch that Castiel realizes this is actually happening. He’s losing his virginity, right here, right now, in the loft of some hermit’s barn in the backwoods of Rail Pass, Vermont. Who knew this would actually happen so soon? He’s only seventeen. A year ago, he had no friends, hardly spoke to anyone, and lived somewhere completely different, and now he’s on his back beneath a beautiful green eyed boy for whom Castiel’s affection has no limits, and he’s losing his virginity.

                It all seems so fucking unreal.              

                Dean pauses once the head of his dick is inside, his body shuddering, breath coming out in sharp little pants. He leans down and kisses Castiel once. “You still doing okay?” he asks, their lips close enough to brush as he speaks, and Castiel gulps, swallowing with a click, unable to speak. He just clings to Dean and nods, hooking his legs around the back of Dean’s strong thighs.

                Dean waits a few more moments, and then _very_ slowly starts to push forward. As the girth of his shaft starts to slide tantalizingly slow inside of Castiel, Cas breathes through the burning stretch. Dean pauses a few more times along the way, allowing Cas time to adjust, but eventually, Cas feels lightly haired balls slap gently against his ass, and Dean groans, shaking and sweating with the effort it takes to move slowly, fully seated inside of Castiel.

                Cas couldn’t even begin to describe how this feels. The first thing that comes to mind is that he feels _full_ , so deliciously full, like he was missing something and finally has it. He’s astounded by the _heat_ between his legs, how hot Dean’s body feels inside his own, like there’s a fire deep inside.

                His erection has waned a little with the penetration, but when Dean removes his hand from Castiel’s hip and takes his cock in hand, he quickly hardens again, moaning and arching up a bit. Dean groans as the movement causes him to slip a couple inches out of Castiel’s body, but when he presses back in again, Castiel sees stars.

                Dean tugs Castiel’s dick a few more times, his hand still a little wet from the lube, and then he lets it go, laying down fully on top of Cas, mashing their mouths together and trapping Castiel’s dick between their bellies. When Dean pulls out, all the way to where just the head of his cock is inside Cas, and then thrusts back in again slowly, their stomachs create the perfect amount of friction on Cas’s trapped member, and he moans into Dean’s mouth.

                The next time Dean pulls out, he doesn’t thrust back in quite as slowly, and before Cas knows it, Dean’s set up a steady pace. It feels strange, but at the same time, _amazing_. He can feel every inch of Dean inside him, moving in and out, hard as a rock, the friction maddening. He’s halfway aware that he’s moaning like a fucking porn star, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind, kissing him despite the fact that Cas is only halfway participating in the kiss. He’s too distracted by the sensations happening in his body right now, and his kisses are sloppy and half-assed.

                The barn is filled with just the sounds of their mingled moans and grunts, and the soft slap of skin on skin as Dean picks up the pace, snapping his hips forward. The stretched burn in Castiel’s ass fades the longer they go at it, transforming into tingling spikes of pleasure that start to build and build in his lower abdomen with more familiarity. But this is more intense than he’s ever experienced before, more intense than just a blowjob or frottage. This is somehow _deeper_ , an orgasm building from within him and spreading out like wildfire from his very core.

                Dean shifts suddenly, angling his hips up a bit, and on his next thrust in, he hits something that has Castiel’s vision whiting out for a second or two. He gasps raggedly and cries out at the intense sensation, his head falling back limply against the blanket.

                “W-what…” Castiel stammers, gasping, “What was that?”

                Dean smiles knowingly, panting as he looks down at Cas in the darkness. “What?” he asks, “This?” And as he says it, he snaps his hips forward again, hitting that spot deep inside Castiel again. Cas cries out once more, arching up, his fingertips digging into Dean’s shoulders so hard he must be hurting him. But Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

                He nods, unable to speak, too busy trying to pull in enough air to not pass out.

                Dean laughs, his laughter cutting off in a groan as Castiel shifts a little, his hole fluttering around Dean’s dick, clenching. “It’s your prostate Cas,” he replies, his voice strained, “It’s like a G-spot for dudes.”

                Castiel barely hears him, his ears ringing, dick leaking steadily between them. But he still shakes his head a little, forcing himself to concentrate. “I-I have…no idea…what that means,” he stammers out between heaving gasps.

                Dean just chuckles and shakes his head, leaning down and kissing him again briefly. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, “I’ll explain later.”

                And yes. That’s okay. Cas doesn’t have the mental capacity to ponder it too much right now. All he can think about is how it feels like there’s electricity in his veins, lighting up every nerve ending, sending signals straight to his dick. Dean continues to thrust, circling his hips a few times, nudging Castiel’s prostate on every pass, until Cas is a mewling, shaking mess beneath him.

                Before he even knows what he’s doing, Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders and flips them over. Dean slips out of him with the movement, a startled gasp punched from his throat as he lands on his back. Castiel straddles his lap, wasting no time, and positions Dean’s cock at his entrance once more, sinking down slowly until Dean is fully sheathed inside him again.

                They both groan at the sensation, but Cas realizes through the haze that Dean is frozen stiff, still reeling from being uprooted so quickly. When Cas reaches down and places his hands on Dean’s chest, he can feel him shaking, and Castiel reads fear once more in Dean’s demeanor.

                He snaps out of his lust filled haze for a few moments, leaning down over Dean and taking his face in his hands, shushing him softly and pressing their lips together. He doesn’t move, not yet, not until he feels Dean relax beneath him. Dean’s trembling hands settle on Castiel’s hips, fingertips just above his ass, his tie pooling on Dean’s sternum where it’s still hanging around Cas’s neck.

                When he begins to move again, Dean moves with him, thrusting upwards into Castiel as Cas swivels his hips down, angling himself so that Dean’s dick hits his prostate again with every thrust. Dean lets out a muffled whimper beneath him, and then his muscular arms come up and wrap around Castiel tightly, and Dean clings to him from beneath. Cas lets him, wants to make sure that Dean is okay, and despite the fact that he’s the one losing his virginity right now, he takes over, leading each thrust, directing the show.

                He rolls his hips, spearing himself on Dean’s aching dick while at the same time getting the friction he needs on his own cock trapped between their bellies. He’s close, and he knows Dean is close by the way Dean is moaning and whimpering, high-pitched keening, his face buried in Castiel’s neck, hands gripping his back.

                He picks up the pace, slamming himself down on Dean’s cock, skin slapping against skin, and about a dozen or so thrusts later, Castiel is crying out his release, coming harder than he has in years, his spend splashing between them on both their stomachs. A few thrusts later, Dean’s whole body stiffens beneath him, and he lets out a strangled groan, his dick twitching inside Cas as he comes too.

                They work themselves through their climax, Dean thrusting into Cas’s ass a few more times, and Cas rolling his hips slowly, milking the last of Dean’s spend. Then he collapses on top of Dean, both of them panting as they lay there, Dean’s cock softening inside of Castiel.

                Cas loses track of how long they lay there, but eventually, he shifts off of Dean, Dean’s spent cock slipping out of him, both of them groaning when it does. Cas’s hole clenches, feeling strangely empty after being stretched so wide. He rolls over onto his back, grimacing at the feeling of his own come quickly cooling on his belly, and he watches Dean’s silhouette pull the condom off his dick, tying it off and tossing it to the side for now.

                Dean reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a bandana, wiping come off of Castiel’s stomach first before cleaning himself off. Then, he lays back down, tucking himself up next to Cas. Castiel stares up at the stars through the skylight, his ass pleasantly sore, and they both lay there for a long moment in breathless silence.

                Then, all at once, both of them start laughing at the same time. Dean buries his face in the side of Castiel’s neck, and both of them laugh and laugh until they have tears running out of the corners of their eyes.

                “Holy fuck,” Dean says through his guffaws, and Castiel runs a hand through his own hair.

                “That was incredible,” he agrees, chuckling, and Dean brings his head up, pressing their lips together once more in a slow, laughter-muddled kiss.

                “We’re definitely doing that again,” he says when he pulls away, and Castiel chuckles once more, both of them falling back against the blanket to look up at the stars again. The fingernail-moon is still visible in the skylight. The sex must not have lasted as long as it felt like it did. Castiel’s sweat is cooling now, goose bumps beginning to prickle on his skin.

                “Dean?” he asks, and Dean shifts a little next to him.

                “Yeah?”

                Cas hesitates, turning his head so he’s looking at Dean, even though he can’t see him in the darkness. “Have you ever done that before?” he asks.

                “Had sex?” he asks, snorting.

                “Taken someone’s virginity,” Castiel clarifies, and he hears Dean chuckle a little.

                “You choose _now_ to have the exes talk?” he asks.

                Cas blushes a little, but allows that a small laugh. “I know you’re not a virgin,” he replies, “It doesn’t bother me. I was just curious.”

                Dean hums a little, and in the darkness Castiel sees the outline of his face turn back towards the stars, his sharp jaw visible in the shadows. “I’ve taken two people’s virginities,” he replies after a moment’s hesitation, and then corrects himself, “Well, three now, including you.”

                Cas lets that sink in, waiting for it to bother him, for jealousy to perhaps rear its ugly head, but nothing happens. “Were they all boys?” he asks, and in the dark, Dean shakes his head.

                “One girl, one boy,” he replies, “And then you.”

                Cas chews on his lip, rolling onto his side and pausing before draping his arm over Dean’s broad, warm chest, playing with the amulet hanging around his neck. He belatedly realizes that he’s still wearing his tie, but he doesn’t mind that much anymore. “Have you slept with a lot of people?” he asks, hoping his questions don’t bother Dean.

                Dean is quiet for a minute, and Castiel can sense his eyes on him, even though he’s more than certain Dean can’t see him in the darkness either. “I’ve slept with my fair share,” he admits, sounding a little embarrassed, “But…I don’t know. It was never like that.”

                Castiel cocks his head to the side. “Never like what?”

                Dean chews on his lip, pondering for a moment before sighing. “All the people I’ve slept with…they all meant something to me,” he says, “Even the nameless ones at parties or whatever. They all meant something. And I remember all their faces.”

                Cas exhales a little in understanding. “They’re all important in their own right,” he puzzles.

                Dean nods. “I know that sounds stupid and cheesy, but it’s true,” he replies, “I think that everyone you meet changes you a little bit.”

                Castiel smiles, abandoning the amulet and instead tracing little circles on the smooth skin of Dean’s chest with his fingertips. “You’re a bleeding heart, Dean Winchester,” he teases, and Dean snorts, flicking his nose.

                “Shut up,” he says, chuckling and tucking one hand behind his head.

                They’re silent for a moment, and then Dean shifts a little. “Hey Cas?”

                “Hm?”

                Dean pauses, and then says, “Thanks.”

                Castiel’s brow creases in confusion. “For what?”

                Dean chews his lip. “For letting me do that,” he replies, “It was special, you know?”

                Cas cocks his head. “What, sleeping with me?”

                Dean snorts. “Taking your v-card, dingus,” he clarifies.

                “Oh,” Cas says, blushing and looking down with a little smile, “You’re welcome Dean.”

 

*       *      *

 

                They must fall asleep at some point, because the next thing Castiel knows, he’s blinking his eyes open and the sky that was filled with stars a minute ago is a deep shade of navy blue, that subtly glowing color that happens an hour or so before dawn. He reaches up and rubs one of his crusty eyes, and when he shifts a little, he realizes Dean’s warm, heavy head is resting on his chest, and one of Castiel’s arms is pinned beneath Dean’s still-naked body.

                Cas cranes his neck up, looking down at the top of Dean’s head, and when he hears Dean’s quiet snores, he smiles to himself, placing a hand on top of Dean’s head and running his fingers through that soft, dark hair. The light of the coming dawn is barely enough to see by, but he can see things a bit more clearly than in the pitch black before. He can see outlines and shapes, and he reaches to the side, carefully avoiding jostling Dean where he’s laying tucked up against Castiel’s side, fishing around in the pocket of his jeans for his cell phone.

                The clock reads a little after four in the morning, and he squints at the screen, wincing as the light blinds him in the near-darkness. Cas blinks away the little spots in his vision and goes to set the phone aside. It slips from his fingers and lands in a pile of hay, kicking up some ancient dust that instantly causes Castiel to sneeze. He tries to muffle it, but the movement jolts Dean out of his sleep, and he sucks in a sharp breath, groaning where his head is resting against Castiel’s bare chest, that stupid tie pillowing Dean’s cheek.

                “Sorry,” Cas whispers in response to Dean’s groan, and he hears Dean smack his lips a little, shifting.

                “We fell asleep,” Dean mumbles, his voice deep and sleep-rough.

                “We tired ourselves out,” Castiel confirms, and Dean snickers tiredly against Cas’s skin, turning his face and pressing a kiss to Castiel’s sternum.

                “What time is it?” he asks, one of his hands coming up and scrubbing at his face. But instead of rolling off of Castiel, he just snuggles in closer, wrapping himself around Cas’s warm body in the cold, the hairs on the top of his head tickling Castiel’s chin.

                “Just after four,” Cas replies, “If I had known this was going to turn into an all-night affair, I would have brought a toothbrush.”

                Dean chuckles. “You bought gum,” he points out.

                Cas hums a little, reaching to the side and smacking his pants, looking for the gum he bought at the gas station with the lube. When he finds it, he pulls out a piece for himself and for Dean. Dean grunts a wordless thanks and accepts it, and for a few minutes, they’re silent, chewing their gum, the minty flavor washing down their throats. It reminds Castiel a bit of Dean’s menthol cigarettes.

                “Cas?” Dean asks, and Castiel shifts a little, blinking down at Dean’s head in the relative darkness.

                “Hm?”

                Dean looks up at him, the angle awkward with his head still on Castiel’s chest. “Have you kissed a lot of people?” he asks, “I know you said you’ve never gone any further than that, but you must have kissed people before, right?”

                Cas smiles a little, chuckling. “Why? You jealous?”

                Dean snorts, and even in the dark, Castiel knows he’s rolling his eyes. He settles his head back against Castiel’s chest, one hand winding around and settling on his ribs. “I’m not allowed to be jealous of a few kisses with everything I’ve done in the past,” he points out, sounding a little embarrassed again.

                Cas shrugs. That’s a fair point. But the way Dean’s hand is clinging to him suggests otherwise, and Castiel has to hide his smile in Dean’s citrus-scented hair. “I haven’t kissed many people,” he admits, “And none of them were boys.”

                “Really?” Dean asks, looking up at him, sounding surprised, “I was the first?”

                Cas huffs. “You were practically my first everything Dean,” he says, and he can actually feel how pleased that makes Dean, with the way Dean melts against him and lays his head back down, the corner of his mouth flexing with a smile. He says nothing to that, and Castiel lays his head back, looking up at the sky through the ceiling.

                “I was kissed by a girl named Hannah in kindergarten,” he tells Dean, “She liked me a lot – at least that’s what she said – but I didn’t like her very much. We were made fun of afterwards because we looked like siblings, and kissing your sibling is wrong. She had my same eyes and hair.”

                Dean snorts. “Do kindergarteners even know what incest is?”

                Cas chuckles and shrugs. “Maybe not, but they know there’s something wrong with kissing your own sibling, so I suppose that’s enough. It didn’t seem to matter that we weren’t _actually_ related.”

                Dean laughs. “Wow, your first kiss was incestuous, I’m sorry.”

                Cas huffs and smacks his head. “Are you making fun of me?”

                Dean laughs and rubs his head, looking up at Cas again briefly. “Maybe,” he replies, grinning, his white teeth barely visible in the darkness. He settles back against Cas’s chest again. “Who else?”

                Castiel shakes his head, settling his hand in Dean’s hair and absently playing with the strands. “There was a girl in middle school that kissed me once, and showed me her boobs,” he recalls, startling another snort out of Dean, “But by then, I already knew I was gay, so I just kind of stared and blinked and ended up making an ass of myself.”

                Dean is quiet for a moment, and then bursts out laughing, his cackles echoing off the ceiling and up towards the pre-dawn sky. “Wow,” he chuckles, “That’s fucking classic.”

                Cas smiles and looks down at Dean’s head again. “You _are_ making fun of me,” he accuses, and Dean lifts his head again, looking up at Castiel.

                The barely-there light catches on his eyes, gleaming mischievously in the shadows. “What’re you gonna do about it?” he challenges, and even in the dark, Castiel can see Dean stick his tongue out like an immature little child.

                He raises one eyebrow, and then without warning flips Dean over, climbing on top of him and pinning him down, immediately finding that soft spot underneath his ribs and tickling him. To his delight, Dean shrieks in the most undignified manner and starts trying to wriggle his way out from underneath Castiel.

                Dean is ticklish. Castiel grins triumphantly and files that little bit of information away in his mind.

                Cas realizes belatedly that both of them are still naked, and Dean bucks up against him, trying to get away, both of them laughing probably too loudly in the quiet night. The shift in their position makes Castiel’s sore ass twinge in pain, and he sucks in a sharp breath, losing his balance and falling down on top of Dean.

                “Are you okay?” Dean asks, heaving in much-needed breaths and trying to stifle his loud laughter.

                Cas groans and shifts uncomfortably. “My ass is sore,” he admits, and Dean stops moving for a moment before he realizes what Castiel is talking about. Then all at once he’s cracking up again, loud and long laughter, his head falling back into the hay where they’ve rolled off the blanket.

                Cas can’t help it, he laughs too, because the sound of Dean’s laughter is addicting. But he still digs his fingers into Dean’s stomach again, tickling him. “No laughing at me!” he growls.

                Dean tries to say something in return, but it’s smothered in laughter. He manages to roll Castiel off him though, and Cas ends up on his back, hay digging into his bare spine and buttocks, and Dean straddles him, pinning him down and tickling him back for a moment before pinning his arms on either side of his head, leaning down and pressing their mouths together.

                Cas kisses him for just a moment, and then nips at his lower lip playfully, wrapping his legs around Dean’s back and flipping them once more. They roll a few more times, until they hit the wall near the edge of the loft, bumping up against hay bales, their skin itchy with it, the air stifling with the dust they’re kicking up. Cas manages to pin Dean down, and Dean kicks his leg out, his bare heel hitting something in the corner.

                Both of them wince and stop laughing when whatever Dean kicked goes flying off the edge of the loft, clattering to the ground below with a deafening crash. The sound seems to echo in the dead silence that follows, and both of them are frozen for a moment before they scramble up and crawl over to the edge of the loft. Dean grabs up one of the flashlights on the way, flicking it on.

                The beam of light is glittering with the dust they’ve kicked up in the air as he shines it down towards the floor of the barn. There’s a big metal bucket, and a couple different sized metal rakes laying on the wood and dirt floor below, the bucket still spinning a little as it settles where it fell.

                “Shit,” Dean chuckles, and that’s about all he has a chance to say before they hear a crash outside the barn. It’s distant, like a door slamming far off in the trees.

                “Hey! Who the hell’s out there?” an angry voice shouts from outside, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the voice belongs to the man who lives in the house through the trees. Neither of them really have time to react too much to the angry shouts before there’s a sudden, deafening boom. Dean bristles, and it takes Castiel a moment to figure out that the loud sound was a gun going off, a shotgun judging from how loud it was.

                Dean sweeps the flashlight up, shining it between them, and in the bad lighting, Cas can see Dean’s green eyes are wide with sudden shock and alarm.

                “You’re trespassing on private property!” the angry man’s voice shouts again outside, “Show your ugly mug!” There are rapid footsteps crunching through the trees as the man approaches the barn, and when they hear the sound of the shotgun cocking again, Dean and Cas look at each other wide-eyed with horror, and then scramble up.

                “Shit, shit, shit!” Dean whispers under his breath, and both of them grab up their clothes and belongings. Dean abandons the blanket and one of the flashlights, still clutching the other in his hand, and Cas manages to gather up all his things apart from the lube.

                They scramble down the wooden ladder as fast as they can manage, still ass-naked in the darkness, clutching their clothing to their chests. Cas drops his pants and quickly reaches to scoop them up again, running towards the window through which they entered the barn with Dean quick on his heels.

                They can hear the man outside getting closer, his footsteps heavy, snapping branches and crunching over the hard ground, probably iced over with a layer of frost at this hour. Dean climbs through the window first, tossing his clothes out and then helping Castiel through the narrow hole in the planks they kicked out. Cas’s gum falls out of his mouth when he reaches down to pick up his own clothes again, but he barely even notices it, taking off towards the trees barefoot and naked.

                “Hey, hey! Get back here!” he hears the angry man shout, and he knows he’s been spotted by the spike in the man’s voice. Cas can practically _feel_ the barrel of the shotgun pointing at him, but he just ducks and sprints through the trees away from the barn. He hears another gunshot echo off the sky, deafening in the night, and he trips, stumbling, before continuing onward.

                It takes him a few minutes to realize that he can’t hear Dean behind him. He skids to a halt, the angry man’s shouts fading, and looks around in the near-darkness, nothing but shadows and pre-dawn light. His heart is pounding loud enough that it sounds like a dull, distant banging of a drum, and he gulps and gasps for breath, hugging his clothing tightly to his naked chest. His tie has managed to twist around his neck, and is now dangling between his shoulder blades on his back.

                Back near the barn, another shot rings out, and then somewhere in the distance, Castiel hears a loud laugh. It’s Dean’s laugh, and he breathes a heavy sigh of relief, because Dean’s okay. If he’s laughing like that, he’s okay. They just got separated.

                The angry man’s voice yells something into the trees, but Cas is far enough away that he doesn’t really understand it. He stumbles a few steps and leans back against a tree, catching his breath, his bare toes burning in the cold. He drops his clothing and sifts through it, pulling his boxers and pants on first before putting his shirt on. His fingertips are cold, so it takes him a few minutes to fasten all the buttons on his shirt. When he finishes, he realizes he did them up uneven, and one half of his shirt is longer than the other. But he doesn’t really care right now.

                As he slips his feet into his Converse, realizing that he left his socks behind in the barn, he can hear Dean laughing and whooping somewhere far off in the trees. Cas snorts to himself, his hands shaking and his heart pounding. Nothing like that has _ever_ happened to him before. He was just shot at! He pats his body down, just in case he managed to get himself shot at some point and just hasn’t noticed yet. Apart from the soreness in his no-longer-virgin ass, he’s unharmed.

                He checks to make sure he has his wallet and phone with him, and then hugs himself in the cold, blinking in the darkness, trying to orient himself. He hears Dean laugh again, his voice sounding further away, and he starts jogging in the direction of the sound, unable to keep himself from smiling at the sound of Dean so amused by the whole situation.

                He loses track of how long he runs through the trees towards where he last heard Dean laughing. He wants to call out to him, but he’s afraid the old man is still outside near the barn, and he doesn’t want to give away his location, even though he’s pretty sure he’s far enough away at this point that the man won’t be able to shoot him, even if he does hear him.

                It isn’t until what feels like hours later that Castiel suddenly finds a break in the trees. He coughs a little, his throat still scratchy from the dust of the barn and from running so much, and he rubs the skin of his arms under his sleeves. The hay made his skin dry and itchy.

                He stumbles out of the trees into the clearing, and once he’s out of the shadows, everything is a little easier to see. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. It’s a little after five now, and the dawn is coming, the navy blue of the sky fading slowly to deep gray and blood maroon. It’s still too dark to see terribly clear, but he can see enough to make out several very large objects in front of him.

                He realizes they’re train cars, maybe eight of them that he can see, some on their sides and others looming as shadows in the darkness. He glances back towards the trees, looking for any signs of Dean, listening, but all he hears is silence. Coughing, he scans his eyes over the train cars, wandering forward through the clearing and peering into the one closest to the edge of the forest. He turns on the light of his cell phone and points it into the darkness of the train car, the beam sweeping over old rotting lumber from what he can see.

                He wonders fleetingly if this is the Ghost Town Dean mentioned last night in the barn, and chews on his lip. He glances behind himself again, towards the dark line of trees. “Dean!” he whispers raggedly, hoping maybe Dean is nearby and will hear him. He doesn’t want to shout his name, paranoid that the old man is still in the forest somewhere with his shotgun, waiting to take him down.

                He calls Dean’s name a couple more times, whispering loudly, but there’s no reply.

                Biting the inside of his cheek, Cas turns back towards the train car and hoists himself up inside it. He figures maybe if he just waits here, Dean will eventually show up, and it’s better inside the train car than walking around on the frozen ground or through the trees where he knows there are probably animals. He keeps half-expecting to look up and see that white-tailed deer again, but it’s never there when he points his phone light outside.

                Hugging himself in the cold, he scuffs his shoes on the floor of the train car, studying all the random things inside. There’s mostly just lumber, piles of it that look like they’ve been here for years. An old tree stump is scooted up in the corner near the back, and there are cigarette butts and bottles and trash littering the dusty floor. This must be where Dean said he and his friends used to go. All the cigarettes don’t look very old.

                He points his phone light towards the wall and spots writing there, some of it spray painted, and other bits just carved into the old wood. Cas walks forward, crouching down, and finds different swear words carved there, and some sort of symbol he doesn’t recognize spray painted in black. Graffiti was fairly common where he lived in Chicago, but he’s surprised to find it here where they don’t seem to have much of a gang problem.

                Cas busies himself reading the various meaningless things written on the wood, but then freezes up when he comes across a series of names. The first name he sees is **_Alastair_** , scratched there right near the stump. The letters look old, like they were carved there years ago, but just the sight of the name makes Castiel’s blood run cold. He sweeps his light up, and finds the next name, **_Zach_** , and then **_Gordon_. ** He swallows past the dry lump in his throat and keeps searching the names, finding the initials **_F.R.M._** with the name **_CROWLEY_** scratched there too right beneath in all caps. Castiel remember the initials FRM being stitched in gold in the corner of Crowley’s handkerchief the day Crowley wiped Al’s spit off his face.

                Even though he expects it, he still feels a little flutter in his stomach when he finds Dean’s name scratched into the wood. It’s a few inches to the right of Crowley’s, and even the way it’s carved into the wood has character. In big, bold, yet humble scratches, it’s spelled out: **_Dean Winchester_** , and then a few inches below, in parenthesis, it says **_(Dr. Sexy M.D.)_**. Castiel laughs when he sees that, trailing his fingertips over the bumpy grooves in the wood.

                There are several more things written there, all in varying stages of wear, like some are fresher than others. Cas reads different insults written about other students at their school, people he’s never heard of and people he shares classes with. He spends several minutes reading them all, and then toes at the piles of cigarette butts until he hears a crunch behind him.

                “Cas!” Dean’s voice calls out distantly from the trees in a loud whisper, “Cas!”

                He straightens up and pokes his head out of the train car, waving his phone light in the direction of the trees. “Over here!” he whispers back. He’s not sure why they’re still whispering, but it doesn’t feel right to talk at a normal volume yet. His heart is still beating faster than normal with the memory of the shotgun blasts.

                “Cas? That you?” Dean calls out from the tree line, and Castiel spots the beam of the flashlight in the shadows.

                “It’s me!” he replies, waving his cell phone light once more and then ducking back into the train car. He listens to Dean’s footsteps crunching through the trees and heading towards the train car. They stutter and slow down when Dean gets near the opening, and Castiel turns back, shining his light at Dean, who is now fully dressed again. He looks a little pale, but it might just be the darkness.

                “This is Ghost Town, isn’t it?” Cas deduces in a whisper, sweeping his light around, “That place you mentioned yesterday?”

                In the silence, he hears Dean swallow with a click. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice a little strained. Castiel points his light back in Dean’s direction, and Dean looks a little spooked.

                “Are you alright?” he asks, stepping forward and standing at the edge of the opening to the train car. Dean blinks a couple times, staring into the car behind Castiel, and then rubbing his arm, taking a step back and looking away.

                “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replies gruffly, “We should go.”

                Castiel studies him for a moment, noting the change in Dean’s demeanor. Not a half an hour ago, he was a laughing mess sprinting through the trees, and now he looks like he just watched someone get their throat slit. There’s a fine sheen of cold sweat on his brow that reflects Castiel’s phone light.

                Cas glances behind himself, shining his light into the train car for a moment more, eyeing the writing on the wall. His light catches on a large, dark stain on the floor near the center of the car, and he feels his stomach tighten a little. It looks like blood, but it could just as easily be paint or spilled wine or something. He stares at the stain for a couple seconds, and then turns back towards Dean. Dean is staring at the stain too, his eyes a little glassy, and Castiel jumps down from the train car.

                He walks up to Dean and places his hand on the side of Dean’s face, jolting Dean out of a slight daze. Dean blinks and looks at him, and Cas smiles, leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. When he looks down, Dean has one hand wrapped around his bandaged forearm in a white-knuckled grip, and Cas takes the hand, weaving their fingers together.

                “Let’s get out of here,” he says, because from the looks of it, Dean really doesn’t like it here, for whatever reason. He sees the relief wash over Dean’s face, and then, swallowing hard, Dean turns away, and they walk hand in hand towards the trees again and away from Ghost Town.

                As they walk, Dean seems a little distant, his hand gripping Castiel’s too tightly, and Cas realizes there are fine tremors rolling through him. Cas ignores the sore twinges coming from his ass and looks over at Dean’s face, hardly visible in the dark. He pulls Dean’s hand up and kisses his scarred knuckles, and he sees Dean look over at him.

                Cas hears him let out a shaky sigh, and then sees Dean’s lips curl in a small, hesitant smile. Before he knows what’s happening, Dean is pulling Cas to a stop and reeling him in by his tie again, mashing their mouths together. They stand there kissing like that for a few minutes, Dean’s kisses desperate and sloppy at first and then fading into a more languid drag of his lips as his body relaxes.

                When it ends, neither of them says anything, but Castiel smiles and tucks himself up against Dean’s side. They walk through the woods in silence all the way back to Hautley’s Bend, and Castiel vows to himself that he’ll never bring up Ghost Town to Dean again. Something was off in the way Dean reacted back there. Just another secret; just another story for another day. All Castiel knows is that he never wants to see Dean look that scared ever again.  

 

*       *       *

 

                When they finally make it back to the Impala, the sky is blood orange and there's a man delivering newspapers from the window of his small car on the street. Dean and Cas climb up onto the hood of the Impala and lean against the windshield, watching the sunrise over the trees. Castiel is still tired, but he's happy, and he can't stop smiling, shoulder to shoulder with Dean on the car, their hands still intertwined.

                He doesn't really _feel_ any different, now that he's not a virgin, but when Dean drives him to Missouri's house around seven, after they've made out in the car for another half an hour or so, Missouri gives Castiel a knowing look and just smiles to herself, fixing him a cup of tea and heading to the stove to supervise Jesse making breakfast.

                Cas watches Dean drive away out the front window of Missouri's living room, and then settles in her warm dollhouse kitchen, cupping his hands around his tea to warm them, smelling of old stale hay and faintly of strawberries. The latter makes him blush a little and he studies his tea like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, ducking his head to hide the red flush on his cheeks from Missouri.

                His mind goes over everything that happened last night, from meeting Benny at dinner, to the barn, to losing his virginity, to wrestling with Dean, to being shot at, to stumbling across Ghost Town. He feels that familiar curiosity tugging at him when he thinks about Ghost Town, and the way Dean reacted when he saw it, but he squashes it down, telling himself that Dean will eventually talk about whatever it is he's hiding, when he's ready.

                When Anna wanders into the room, sleep rumpled and yawning, she grimaces when she sees Castiel and plucks at his messy hair, pulling out clumps of hay from the tangled strands. Cas blanches when he sees them and tries to hide the hay from Missouri, but he's too late. She fixes him with a look and clucks her tongue.

                "You boys leave poor Mr. Devereaux alone out there," she scolds, "That man values his privacy."

                Cas's forehead creases in confusion, but he just presses his lips together and nods. Mr. Devereaux must be the man who was shooting at them a few hours ago. Castiel shivers at the memory, half wanting to laugh, half wanting to cringe. He has no idea how Missouri knows that they were out there, but the hay must have given it away. He slips quietly to the tarot card bathroom and plucks the rest of the hay from his hair, taking in his reflection in the mirror.

                He has a sort of glow about him this morning, a flush to his cheeks, a twinkle in his eyes. He isn't quite sure what it is, but something's different. Smiling to himself, he wanders back to the kitchen and sits down to breakfast with Anna, Jesse, and Missouri. Jesse has made blue smiley face pancakes, but they look more like inedible blobs. Still, Castiel eats them, daydreaming to himself, smacking his lips when the undercooked dough sticks to the roof of his mouth.

                He gets a text from Dean halfway through the meal letting him know that he got home safe and is going to pass out for a few hours before Sammy wakes up. Cas smiles when he reads the text, even though Dean hasn't said anything particularly funny. He sends a quick text back and then tucks his phone away.

                When he looks up again, Missouri is studying him from across the table, a smile all in her eyes. Cas blushes at how knowing her stare is, but he smiles back slightly, just the corner of his mouth lifting up, and when Jesse and Anna retreat to the living room to watch Saturday morning cartoons on the little old fashioned TV in the corner, Missouri eyes him over the brim of her teacup and asks, "Dean get home safe?"

                Cas glances down at his phone in his pocket and then back up at her, chewing on his lip and nodding.

                She hums, smiling, and takes a sip of her tea. "Good."


	24. Broken Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm my own beta for this fic (if it wasn't obvious haha) so all typos and mistakes, etc are my own. Sorry for any misspellings and such :) Enjoy <3

**_FEBRUARY_ **

                It's been a week since Sam had his meltdown about Mary, and he refuses to talk about it. Dean has tried. He's tried to get him to say something about it. He's tried asking nicely, he's tried using his big brother voice. He's even tried using his _dad_ voice, which he picked up somewhere along the line from John. But Sam refuses to budge on the subject, and stays quietly locked in his room working on that fucking family lineage history project alone for hours.

                Dean knows that the Winchesters have a way of wanting to deal with things alone, work through things by themselves. He does it all the time himself. But when Sam does it, it's the most fucking frustrating thing in the world, because Dean has no idea how to help his little brother. The kid is obviously hurting, and Dean can't even begin to understand what's going through that big brain of his under all that shaggy hair.

                Eventually, though, Dean drops the subject. For now. He'll pick it up later again, nag Sam some more, but he figures giving Sam a few days of peace and quiet will do the kid some good, even if it drives Dean crazy. He takes out his frustrations and helplessness on himself, of course, because he's Dean fucking Winchester, and he's a pathetic piece of shit.

                So he sits on his roof, back against the bricks of the chimney, always eyeing the squash lady's windows to make sure she isn't standing there watching before he rolls up his sleeve and burns himself again and again. The stress from Sammy's meltdown alone has caused at least half a dozen fresh new burns on Dean's freckled skin. He forearm constantly throbs, constantly stings, and Dean is running out of unmarked skin to mar. But he can't stop.

                It's only burning himself, alcohol, and Castiel that successfully distract him from his own mind, and all his problems.

                Which is pathetic, really, but it’s almost like he’s just too tired to really give a shit how low he’s gotten.

                When Sammy starts waking up screaming a couple times a night, Dean takes up a permanent sleeping arrangement in his room, despite Sam’s weak protests.  Dean grits his teeth and ignores the new drawings he sees on Sam’s desk every night, of an infant with bat wings and demonic horns, and a woman on fire, screaming, blood, gore, violence, death. He never realized how talented Sam is artistically. The drawings look professionally done, detailed and vivid. Dean would be impressed – he actually _is_ a little – if the drawings weren’t so gruesome.

                He loses sleep, obviously, taking care of Sam in the middle of the night when he has his nightmares. But Dean’s used to losing sleep, on account of the fact that he has his _own_ nightmares to deal with, which are coming back full force now that Sam is having them too. Every turn is a constant reminder of The Accident, and the whole situation is actually sort of bittersweet in a way. Thoughts of Alastair and the incident at Ghost Town are, for the time being, forced to the back of Dean’s mind, replaced by the more pressing issue of Sam’s mental breakdown.

                Turns out, the human mind can only handle so many traumas at once, and Dean’s brain is doing all the compartmentalizing for him.

                Any overflow is cleaned right up with random bursts of anger, self-harm, and alcoholism. Dean gets in a couple of exceptionally bad fights with John during the week, one of which is just a shouting match that ends with a police officer (who just so happens to be Gordon’s father) showing up on their front stoop to scold them. The other fight is short but violent, and ends abruptly with Dean’s forehead gashed open and bleeding, and a bruise the size of his father’s boot print very prominently displayed across his ribs.

                He stops picking fights with his dad after that.

                When the week is up, and Dean is so worn out and sleep-deprived that he’s seeing doubles, he has Sammy pack a bag and drops him off at the Singer’s house for a couple of nights on Friday afternoon, just to give himself time to think. Ellen takes one look at his gashed and badly bruised forehead and asks no questions. Dean ruffles Sam’s hair and Sam gives him a big hug that feels like an apology, and then they part ways for a couple days.

                Dean immediately goes over to Crowley’s tiny little shitty apartment on the outskirts of town, taking a shortcut through the woods and chain smoking cigarettes the whole way. When Crowley moved here from England, he was declared an emancipated teen, and therefore was able to purchase his own place. He lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment with bad plumbing and no heat near the old train station on the edge of town that’s no longer in operation.

                Somehow, though, the interior of his apartment still looks like it’s owned by royalty. Crowley has velvet couches and expensive-looking statues and paintings set about, as well as fine gold-flecked dishes and expensive alcohol on a tiny bar erected in the corner. Leave it to Crowley to make everything look like it’s worth more than it is.

                Crowley takes one look at the dark circles under Dean’s eyes, and the wound from John on his forehead, and he hands Dean a bottle of whiskey. Jack, not Glencraig, to Dean’s relief. He doesn’t even bother with a glass, just takes several long swallows straight from the bottle, eyes watering with the burn as the alcohol rolls down his throat. What the hell, right? It’s Friday, and he has nowhere to be. Castiel is working tonight, and he promised to take Anna and Jesse out to a movie afterwards, so they’re not seeing each other tonight. Dean is a little disappointed by that, because he _always_ wants to see Castiel, but they can spend one night apart. It’s not a big deal.

                He collapses back on Crowley’s too-fancy couch, blinking tiredly and tossing back more whiskey. Crowley disappears for a moment into his bedroom, and comes back with a small box that kind of looks like a jewelry box, but is also in the shape of a skull with sapphires in the eye sockets. Dean knows what’s in there. It’s Crowley’s stash, all the different drugs he’s collected, only to be brought out on special occasions. Dean regards his friend gratefully and leans forward, watching as Crowley expertly rolls up a joint and hands it to Dean before rolling one for himself.

                Dean sits back and politely waits for Crowley to finish making his own, and then they sit side by side and light them up. Dean hasn’t smoked weed in a while, and he’s definitely missed the heavy, dreamlike state it puts him in. It’s almost like all his problems are taken out of his mind and are floating in a box at the end of a long hallway. His pain too. The steady phantom pains eating away at his scars feel distant, almost like they don’t even belong to him. He can still feel them, but they just don’t matter anymore when he’s this high.

                Crowley is telling him stories, something the Brit is prone to do when he’s high and chatty, and even though they really aren’t that funny, Dean laughs anyway. And laughs, and laughs, and laughs, and _boy_ , Crowley likes the sound of his own voice.

                Usually Dean doesn’t like to overdo it when he smokes weed, doesn’t like to get _too_ high, because then he gets paranoid. But something about today makes him want to keep right on smoking. He finishes two whole joints by himself over the course of an hour or so (although it could be longer, or shorter – his perception of time is skewed) and gets himself so completely stoned that he can feel it in his teeth, like chewing on aluminum foil. His ears are ringing, like water droplets landing and echoing in a massive cave. Everything is heightened, and then blurred over with a layer of fuzzy mold.

                Time doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Except of course Castiel, and Sammy, but it’s all distant right now.

                Before Dean knows what they’re doing, he and Crowley have eaten practically everything easily accessible in Crowley’s tiny little kitchen (and Dean is absolutely _fascinated_ by the way the tapioca they mix up feels on his numb tongue), and they’ve watched their way through three comedy sketches on Netflix, and Dean has babbled uselessly for a straight twenty minutes about blue eyes.

                He falls into a heavy, heavy sleep hours later in an uncomfortable position on Crowley’s fancy couch, head mashed against the armrest and boots halfway toed off. Distantly, he feels Crowley drape something warm and soft over him, and he bats his friend’s hands away with an undignified giggle.

                He tries to stay awake long enough to finish his story about the backwoods barn and the man with the shotgun a week ago, but he’s already asleep before he gets to the good part.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean hasn’t always been like this. There was a time when he was clean, strong, and - dare he say it? - _pure_. Maybe even _innocent_. It doesn’t matter that those times were when he was still impressing all the other kids in daycare with sandbox creations. Before Mary Winchester died.

                The funny thing about weed, and the thing that Dean loves most about it, is that it puts you to sleep, and keeps you there. Like a drug induced coma. Dean sleeps relatively well when he’s high, despite the strange dreams it causes.

                And he dreams a lot that night on Crowley’s couch. He dreams about shotguns and barns and hay and strawberries, and he dreams of blue, blue swimming pools, and burning hairspray and nooses. He dreams of a whitetail deer covered in blood. He dreams of waking up in Sammy’s room to find that Sam has sprouted wings and a tail and he’s sucking the blood out of rats and mice. He’s so deep in the dreams, so trapped, that he can’t seem to wake up screaming from the more horrendous ones.

                Weed is funny that way. It puts you in your own mind and traps you there. Dean is stuck.

                But it’s okay, he supposes. Maybe he can work some things out in his own head while he’s in there.

                He has no idea how long he sleeps, but when he finally wakes up, he does so quietly. He doesn’t scream, or gasp, or jolt out of his slumber. He just…opens his eyes.

                The outwardly peaceful awakening might have something to do with the fact that he still feels high. He blinks blearily, his neck stiff and sore from laying at an awkward angle on Crowley’s couch, and squints at the grandfather clock Crowley has standing near the front door. It’s the middle of the night. He wonders if it’s still Friday.

                When he shifts a bit, his joints crack, and he finds a heavy blanket draped over him that Crowley must have put there. When Dean rubs the sleepy gunk from his eyes, he clears his vision enough to spot Crowley asleep on the armchair across the room, his head tipped back, a glass of some amber alcohol still clutched in his hand with a couple fingers of drink. Dean snorts a little when he spots him, still dressed nice and dapper as always, illuminated by the flickering of the television that’s set to some news channel showing after-hours infomercials.

                When Dean moves, there’s a certain heaviness to his head that tells him he indeed is still high. He’s not surprised. He smoked _a lot_. He smacks his lips and grimaces at his cotton mouth, squirming around and wriggling his way out from under the blanket, stumbling to his feet.

                He manages to get himself a tall glass of water in the kitchen, which he chugs too quickly for it to be satisfying. He refills it and carries it back to the living room, plunking exhaustedly down on the velvet couch again, cracking his neck. Crowley jolts awake when Dean changes the channel on the TV to reruns of cartoons, and Dean glances at him apologetically. They sit there in comfortable silence watching the TV absently while coming down from their respective highs.

                When the sun starts to come up through Crowley’s curtained windows, the both of them are finally sober enough to have decent conversation. They talk about nothing, as always, and it seems Crowley has finally used his powers of observation to deduce that Dean _really_ doesn’t like it when he brings up Alastair. Dean is internally grateful that Crowley steers clear of the subject of Al, and Ghost Town, and basically anything to do with their mutual acquaintances.

                They take a quick walk to McDonald’s to get a crappy, greasy breakfast to take care of their mild hangovers from the drinking they did last night in addition to the weed, chain smoking the whole way because that’s what Dean and Crowley do together, and then just go straight back to Crowley’s apartment to hole up for the day afterwards. Dean figures he’ll probably be going over to Castiel’s later, but for now, he’ll let him sleep.  

                Crowley offers to let Dean use his shower, but Dean refuses, giving his armpit a smell test. He reeks of cigarettes and weed, and underneath that, lemon-lime body wash and sweat, but he’s feeling too heavy and tired to take a shower right now. He wolfs down his McDonald’s while Crowley takes a quick shower himself, and when he comes back out, they turn on _Braveheart_ and slum it for the next few hours watching Mel Gibson paint his face blue.

                By the time it’s midday, Dean still doesn’t feel any better than he did yesterday when he dropped Sammy off at the Singer’s. He came to Crowley’s specifically to forget about all of that, to make himself feel better, to get out of this dark, low mood he’s been in for however long now.

                Crowley seems to notice his gloominess, and does what any best friend would do. He pulls out his sapphire skull box again and flips it open. Dean watches him absently as Crowley sets aside the weed and goes for the stronger stuff at the bottom of the box. He offers Dean either cocaine or acid, but Dean shivers and refuses both. The last time he did cocaine, he spent his high beating up Cas. And the last time he tripped acid, he ended up face-down on a train car floor with Alastair’s hands all over him…

                Dean swallows back bile and shakes his head, balling his hands into fists and resisting the urge to step outside and burn himself.

                Crowley just shrugs and digs around some more, pulling out a plastic bag with strange brown chunks in the bottom. _Shrooms_ , according to Crowley. Dean thinks maybe he’s done magic mushrooms before, but he can’t remember exactly in the haze of his colorful drug-riddled career. Nevertheless, he accepts, because Crowley is making an effort here to cheer him up, make him forget about his problems for a while. And who is Dean to refuse him?

                “Cheers mate,” Crowley smirks, and they tap their handfuls of shrooms together before tossing them back. Dean grimaces as he chews the bitter drugs, swallowing with effort and quickly washing down the bad taste with a couple swigs of the Jack he didn’t quite finish last night.

                They listen to music and play a bad game of cards for a little while until the drugs kick in about a half an hour later. Then, Dean sort of loses track of what they do. Deep down, he knows they’re probably just laying there with their mouths gaping like a couple of idiots, blinking as they hallucinate. Dean sees colors again, just like with the acid, but he tries not to let his drugged mind think about what happened to him at Ghost Town while he was high on acid last time. He can’t think about that right now.

                He flops back on the couch and stares at the bookshelf across the room, gawking at little bugs and creatures he sees skittering across the spines of the books and over the potted plants. He sees flowers sprouting from the pages of the books. Realistically, he knows he’s hallucinating this, but he still laughs in disbelief, rubbing at his eyes, filled with euphoria. Time goes too fast and stands still all at the same time, and he barely hears it when Crowley talks to him, barely registers it when Crowley hands him water, or a cigarette, or some food, because he’s too busy trying to decide whether the laughter he’s hearing in his head is actually real.

                Every time he closes his eyes, he sees blurred shapes of people wearing flower crowns and running across the inside of his eyelids. He hears them giggling, and singing, but it’s all muffled like he’s at the bottom of a swimming pool.

                And for fuck’s sake, what _is_ his obsession with swimming pools when he’s intoxicated?

                He kind of wishes he could find a swimming pool right now, because he’d really like to know if he’d be able to hear those voices and that singing clearer if he were actually underwater in real life, kind of like that egg thing in _Harry Potter_ (which Dean only really watched for Sam’s benefit, the little nerd). He asks Crowley whether there’s a swimming pool nearby, and Crowley smiles at him (a smile that keeps spreading and spreading until he looks like a horrifying real-life Cheshire cat…Dean has to remind himself that it’s a hallucination before he starts screaming at the image) and says that there’s an indoor pool in this shitty little apartment complex.

                They head out there with a six pack of cheap beer from Crowley’s fridge, and both of them strip down to their boxers, laughing too-loud in the late afternoon daylight. The pool is indeed indoors, but it’s in a sort of greenhouse structure made entirely of glass. Dean falls back into the water and allows himself to sink to the bottom of the shallow end, keeping his eyes open the whole way. He’s disappointed to find that the singing and the laughter and the voices he’s hearing aren’t any clearer underwater, but that disappointment is replaced with awe when he hallucinates bright flashes of color swimming around him like fish. They’re always out of the corner of his eye, just out of reach, but they’re there, and he delights himself in chasing them around until Crowley has to fish him out of the water just so he can breathe.

                They stay in the pool for as long as they can, ignoring that it’s freezing despite the fact that it’s indoors. It’s still February after all, the water is frigid in the heatless greenhouse interior. They stay for as long as they can stand the chill, and then crawl out of the water laughing and sputtering stupidly.

                Crowley has seen Dean’s scars before, from The Accident, caught glimpses of them over the years. He’s never said anything, but it’s sort of an unspoken agreement the two of them have not to mention it when Dean has his shirt off in front of him. As such, Crowley is one of the few people that Dean feels alright to be this exposed in front of. If he weren’t so high right now, he’d pay it more mind, but as it is, Crowley barely gives Dean’s scars a second glance as they dry off and get dressed again.

                They sit out there polishing off the beers, and then head back inside Crowley’s apartment to ride out the rest of their high in comfort in front of the TV. Crowley turns on a movie Dean doesn’t recognize. It’s in French, but he doesn’t really care. He’s not paying attention to it as much as he’s paying attention to that laughter and singing still in his head.

                When the sun starts to go down, and both of them start to get tired as the drugs finally wear off after hours of hallucinating, Crowley shares another joint with Dean and they kick back a couple more beers. Dean smiles at his friend and claps him on the back gratefully. The drugs _did_ help a bit in making Dean forget about life for a while. He knew he could count on Crowley to help with that.

                It’s around nine-thirty Saturday night by the time Dean flips open his cell phone, blinking tiredly in the aftermath of the shrooms, and finds a text from Cas saying that he finished with work at Bobby's shop for the night but Gabriel and Kevin are coming over to work on a project with him. Dean sends him a quick message back saying it’s okay, and that he’ll just come over tomorrow. He’s a little disappointed, but he owes Crowley some quality hanging out time anyway. He hasn’t seen the Brit in a while, and even though they just spent the whole night and day together, he could afford to hang out for a few more hours before going home.

                Crowley cooks himself a very late dinner, but Dean refuses any food. He hasn’t had anything to eat since the McDonald’s this morning, and whatever Crowley fed him while he was high on the shrooms, but he doesn’t like the thought of eating right now. He lights up a cigarette and carefully avoids looking at the glowing embers lest he trigger himself into burning again.

                They settle back and play another card game while _Family Guy_ plays on the TV, and when Crowley’s eyes start to droop, they call it a night. Crowley tells him that he can stay the night again and just leave in the morning if he wants, and then he retires to his tiny bedroom down the hall. Dean sits back on the couch for a while smoking another cigarette and drinking another beer, eyeing the mess they made over the past day and a half.

                He sighs and stands, his body worn out and his own eyelids drooping, and he cleans up what he can, putting dishes away and throwing out empty beer bottles. It’s the least he can do after Crowley smoked him up and gave him free shrooms. When he finishes cleaning, he settles back on the couch again and lays on his side, staring at the bookshelf where he hallucinated the bugs earlier.

                And he just lays there. For a long time he lays there. The couch is comfortable and Dean is tired enough, but for some reason, he can’t fall asleep.

                Being sober is so fucking overrated.

                When he’s laid there motionless for over an hour, and still hasn’t fallen asleep, he groans and pushes himself up again, scrubbing a hand down his face. He’s so tired now that he’s _not_ tired, and that makes no sense to him, but it doesn’t matter.

                He eyes the weed Crowley left out on the table, wondering if maybe smoking a little more will help him sleep like it did before. He reaches for it, and then stops himself, pulling his hand back.

                No, he doesn’t want weed right now.

                He kind of wants to hear that laughter and singing in his head again.

                The shrooms were sort of nice. They made him forget about life for a little bit like weed never could.

                Chewing on his lip, he eyes the sapphire skull box for a minute, and then reaches for it, flipping the top of the skull open to search around inside the box for that little bag of shrooms. There are still a decent amount left in the bag, and he licks his lips, unsure how wrong it would be to just take a few more.

                Ignoring the fact for a moment that it’s wrong to take people’s drugs without asking, he’s also heard from a great many people that tripping acid or taking any sort of hallucinogenic drug while by yourself is generally a _bad_ idea. He’s not sure how he’ll react if he takes these while he’s by himself.

                It’s a bad idea. He knows it is.

                But then again, when does Dean Winchester ever listen to his conscience when it’s telling him something is a bad idea?

                What the hell, right?

                What’s the worst that can happen? When he’s sober, he’s already living in a nightmare. Especially when he’s alone. So things can’t really get any worse if he’s on drugs alone, can they?

                He ignores logic and digs in the plastic bag, grabbing out four of the little brown shrooms, staring at them in the palm of his hand for a moment. Then, without further thought, he tosses them back, chewing and swallowing and draining the last of his beer to wash away the nasty taste in his mouth.

                Before they kick in, he fishes a twenty out of his pocket and places it in the skull box with the rest of Crowley’s shrooms, since he feels kind of guilty for stealing more. Then, he sits there, and he waits.

                He knows the exact moment the drugs kick in again, for his second trip that day, because he starts to see little black dots floating around in the air in front of him, like when you stare into a light too long and then blink really fast. He ducks out of the way as some of the dots float towards his face, and smiles to himself, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hallucinating. It’s so much better than reality, where everything has to obey the laws of physics and logic.

                It’s not _logical_ that Dean is seeing animals walking around the room, animals that shouldn’t be inside a crappy little apartment near the broken down train station of Rail Pass. But logic doesn’t matter here, not when he’s so high, so far gone from reality.

                If he’s not careful, he could really form a bad habit here.

                He sits there on the couch zoning out for an immeasurable amount of time, seeing different things and hearing different things. To his disappointment, the laughter and singing he heard before don’t come back, but at one point, he does think he sees someone shooting archery in the kitchen, an arrow flying out and sticking with a _thunk_ in the wall. It causes him to jump, and actually scares him a bit, because this is the point where it’s getting a little _weird._

                He begins to understand why people don’t do hallucinogenic drugs while they’re by themselves at about the same time as he sees another arrow fly out of the kitchen and dissolve into the arm of the couch.

                Dean hugs himself and tries to discern hallucinations from reality, curling his toes in his boots and sweating suddenly, even though it’s cold in here without any heat in early February. He spends about five minutes worrying about Sam all of the sudden, and then curses to himself because the shrooms aren’t working in distracting him from his life anymore.

                He once again longs for that swimming pool, and before he even realizes it, he’s pushed himself up from the couch and is out the front door, grabbing a bottle of some of Crowley’s fancy scotch on the way, wandering towards the indoor pool again, dodging black floating dots that aren’t really there the whole way. To his dismay, he finds the greenhouse pool building locked when he gets there, and he fishes his phone out of his pocket. It’s almost midnight.

                He debates to himself whether he wants to go back to Crowley’s apartment and lay down on that velvet couch again, but he’s too scared now. What if one of those arrows that isn’t really there flies out of the kitchen and hits him? What if one of those animals that logically _can’t_ really be there bites him while he’s trying to sleep? What if, what if, what if?

                _Fuck_. He’s really fucking high.

                With a string of slurred, muddled curses on his tongue, he turns on a heel, chugging down more than half the bottle of scotch in his hand before tossing the bottle aside, hugging himself in the cold and wandering towards the woods. He’ll go home. That sounds like a good plan. There probably aren’t any archers or exotic animals wandering around his house, and John is probably out at the Roadhouse right now. He’ll be able to get sleep there, especially with the help of the scotch now in his system, and in five or so hours, this trip will be over, and he can forget it ever happened and that he was so scared right now.

                That sounds like a good idea.

                Scratching his fingers roughly through his hair when he feels something tickling against his scalp, he slips into the trees to take his well-known shortcut back to his house. There aren’t any marked paths through this section of the forest to guide him home, but he’s traveled this way so many times, he knows these trees like the back of his hand.

                At least, that’s what he thinks until it’s too late and he’s already too deep in the trees to turn back. Everything looks like it’s bending and swaying, and Dean actually takes to chanting out loud to himself that it’s not real, it’s not real, he’s hallucinating, _it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real_. He must look like one crazy, psycho son of a bitch stomping through the woods mumbling to himself, but he doesn’t care right now.

                He ducks with a small cry as something comes flying at his face, before he realizes that it probably wasn’t actually there. Hands shaking, he fishes his phone out of his pocket and uses the tiny little light to guide his way, since the woods are all but pitch black at this late hour save for the moonlight seeping in through the thick branches.

                His vision swims with the mix of scotch and hallucinogens.

                He hears a twig snap to his right and stumbles, whirling around and shining his phone light into the darkness. He thinks maybe he sees someone there, but his vision is blurry with fear at this point, so he fights off the urge to scream and keeps walking, picking up his pace a little. He ducks through the brush in the more lush areas, slipping on moss and frost, little twigs catching on his skin and clothes and tearing little holes. He can’t be sure how much of this is actually real, so he ignores it when he feels tiny beads of blood running down his face.

                He focuses on the very _real_ feeling of pain in his side where John kicked him during their fight this week. The dull, hollow ache of the foot-sized bruise on his ribs grounds him a little bit, because it feels too realistic to be a hallucination. It isn’t muddled over in blurs of color and echoes of sound like the things he’s seeing because of the shrooms.

                Still though, despite his efforts, he feels his heart rate pick up, can _hear_ it pounding in his ears, when he catches strange glimpses of things in the trees. He sees deer. Deer fucking _everywhere_. The blurred shapes of them darting past, too quickly to be real, but too terrifying to be a figment of his imagination. He hears creaking above him, and when he looks up, all he sees are dirty, pale feet hanging from the branches. Dozens of them, everywhere he looks. Feet, women’s feet, dead and white and cold and swaying.

                On second thought, taking this shortcut through the woods was a really, really bad fucking idea.

                At some point, Dean starts running. He trips a few times, and even though deep down he knows he just tripped over a rock or root, his eyes are seeing hands coming out of the ground and grabbing at his ankles, dragging him down. He scrapes his knees open, tears his clothes, lands in dirt that smears across his skin. He’s bloody and sweaty and dirty and disgusting and he knows that, but he just keeps running until he feels like he doesn’t have any air left in his lungs to push him.

                He collapses to his knees and crawls across the ground, finding a solid-feeling tree ( _real, solid, not a hallucination_ ) and he presses his back to it, drawing his legs tightly up to his chest and rocking in agitation as he tries to click through the contacts in his phone, looking for _someone_ who might be able to come out here and help him. He starts to call Crowley, but then hangs up partway through, because Crowley doesn’t even have a car and is probably dead to the world right now. He thinks about calling his dad, but fuck that. When he lands on Castiel’s number, he stares at it for a long moment in contemplation.

                He would feel a hell of a lot better if Cas were with him right now, but how would he even find Dean? Dean doesn’t even know where he is right now, how would he be able to explain to Cas?

                But logic isn’t really running his brain all too well right now, so he goes to press _call_ , if only just to hear Castiel’s voice.

                However, before he even gets a chance to press the button, he gets a good look at his hands and realizes he has extra fingers sprouting from his knuckles. A strange mewling sound of distress claws its way up from his throat and he blinks, shaking his hands like shaking them will toss away the extra fingers. When he looks again, the fingers are gone, but he’s already up and running again, shoving himself away from the tree. He drops his cell phone somewhere but doesn’t think to pick it up again, sprinting through the trees as fast as he can, like some kind of mad man, head heavy with drunkenness and paranoia.

                He runs for what feels like hours, until his heart feels like it’s pumping magma and his lungs feel like they’re full of smoke. When he finally finds a break in the trees, he rockets towards it with the wetness of tears on his face and a sheen of panicked sweat. He must look fucking insane right now, but he doesn’t really care. He’s so high, nothing feels like it’s really happening, and yet feels like it’s all crashing down around him, and _god_ , it was fucking stupid to take these drugs alone.

                Mark this down as yet another time Dean Winchester was a fucking idiot.

                He vaguely recognizes where he is. There’s a monument ahead, of some railroad tycoon from back in the day who set up the industry in Rail Pass years ago after Nathan Hautley founded the town. He knows this monument is about two blocks west of Hautley’s Bend, so he turns in the direction he thinks he needs to go and ignores the whistling he can hear in his head and the strange figures lurking in the dark.

                He passes some midnight jogger running with headphones in on the sidewalk as he sprints towards Hautley’s Bend, and he’s not even sure if the jogger is real or not. She gives Dean a funny look, and her face twists at all the wrong angles, so Dean just looks away, breathing raggedly. He doesn’t really know why he’s running towards Hautley’s Bend, but he thinks maybe the park represents some sort of semblance of familiarity. He needs that right now, after getting lost in the woods.

                When he gets there, though, he doesn’t stop. He just keeps running, past that slide and those creaking swings and that merry-go-round. He only realizes that he hasn’t run to his own house, but instead to Castiel’s, when he’s standing on Castiel’s front lawn, heaving in dry, painful breaths, head swimming with drugs and panic and scotch, staring up at the looming shape of the blue Victorian house on Coolidge Street.

                Cas’s house looks a lot scarier in the dark, especially when Dean is still tripping so badly right now.

                He just wants to get out of the cold, out of the dark. He wants Cas. He wants not to be alone.

                He stares at the front door, considering walking through it, but as he looks, the wood seems to warp and melt in on itself. He whimpers and looks at the front windows, but the same thing happens to them. Swallowing panic and bile, he stumbles over to the side of the house where Castiel’s bedroom window is on the second floor. He hurries, before Cas’s window can melt too, running up to the tree right next to the house and climbing it.

                It’s an evergreen, and the scratchy bark and pointy needles gouge little cuts in his skin as he goes. He slips a few times, but manages to catch himself, scrambling up the tree as fast as he can. Frozen sap gets stuck to his palms and his clothing, and bits of the tree get caught up in his hair, but it’s all worth it when he reaches Cas’s window and pushes it open as quietly as possible. Castiel’s house is dark, so he knows Cas is probably asleep by now. Doesn’t want to wake him. Doesn’t want to disturb. Just wants to be there with him.

                Dean almost slips and falls two stories as he climbs through the window, but he manages to get a leg in, and slides the rest of the way inside. He feels bad that he has to step on Cas’s nightstand in order to get fully into the window, his dirty shoes leaving a footprint there, but he closes the window as quietly as possible and then gets down before he can do more damage.

                Castiel is dead asleep in the bed when Dean finally takes a second to look down at him. His head is buried in the mountain of pillows, dark hair tousled in the moonlight, and he has the blankets wrapped tightly around him, snoring softly. Dean heaves a heavy sigh of relief when he’s finally not alone anymore. He ignores the shapes and creatures he’s still hallucinating out of the corners of his eyes, ignores the ringing and the high-pitched inhuman sounds he hears in his head, and goes to climb into the bed.

                A little bit of dirt from his sleeve falls off onto the white bedspread, and Dean grits his teeth, guilt pooling in his belly. Quickly, he reaches down and brushes the dirt away, and then sheds his clothing as fast as he can, hissing at how cold it is in the room. He leaves just his boxers on, his dirty clothes strewn across the floor, and then finally slips into the bed next to Cas.

                Castiel groans and stirs a little in his sleep when Dean climbs aboard, but then stills. Dean stares at the back of his head for a moment, and almost whimpers again when he thinks he sees something crawling in Castiel’s hair. He knows it’s not real, he _knows_ it’s not real, but he can’t help it. He sits up, climbs over Cas’s sleeping body carefully so that he doesn’t wake him, and then settles on Castiel’s other side, so he doesn’t have to see the back of his head and the thing not-really-crawling in his hair.

                Dean slips under the covers, and slides one foot out, finding Castiel’s warm leg with it. He needs just this little bit of contact. Castiel stirs again when Dean touches him, but then stills once more, and Dean relaxes into the pillows, staring at him for a minute before closing his eyes. He ignores the sounds he’s not really hearing, ignores the things he’s not really seeing on the inside of his eyelids, and tries to sleep.

                It’ll all be over soon. The shrooms will wear off, and it’ll all be over soon. He keeps telling himself that, over and over, as his heart continues to hammer in his chest and his eyes continue to water in fear of the things he didn’t really see out in those woods. He wiggles his fingers constantly, making sure there are only ten of them and no more.

                He’s not sure how long it takes him to fall asleep, but when he does, it’s almost like he was dreaming all along anyway.

 

*       *       *

 

                 Castiel doesn’t know why he wakes up.

                He just does.

                It’s a feeling. Something pulls him from his sleep inexplicably.

                He blinks his eyes open, suddenly wide awake, and stares up at his ceiling, watching the misshapen, prismatic shadows cast by the origami crane mobile stretch across the roof in the moonlight. He was having a dream, and a tiny smile graces his lips when he realizes it was a dream about Dean, about that hayloft in that barn in the backwoods. He was dreaming of strawberry lube and sweat and an uninterrupted starry night sky.

                Of _course_ he would wake up right in the middle of a good dream like that.

                He only lays there for about a minute staring up at his mobile before he realizes there’s a soft snoring coming from beside him. His head snaps to the side and he sits up quickly, the blankets pooling around his waist as he spots the dark figure tucked into the bed next to him.

                At first, he thinks it’s Anna, that perhaps she had a bad dream and just snuck in here sometime after he went to bed like she does sometimes. But this dark figure is too big to be Anna, and when the faint smell of cigarettes drifts past Castiel’s nose, he relaxes a bit when he realizes it’s just Dean.

                His relief is quickly replaced by confusion. What the hell is Dean doing here?

                Cas’s eyebrows press together, and he leans to the side, switching on his lamp on his nightstand, flooding the dark room with meager amber light. It’s not very bright, but it makes him wince anyway, his eyes adjusted to the darkness from before.

                He pauses when he spots a couple of big, dirty footprints on his nightstand, and touches them with his fingertips for a moment in confusion. When he glances at the window, there are smears of dirt and what looks suspiciously like blood on the glass, and his curtain is pinched under the closed frame.

                Dean came in through the window from the looks of it. Why the hell did Dean come in through the window?

                When Castiel turns back around, he gasps sharply at the sight of Dean. It’s just his head that he can see right now, the rest of Dean’s body tucked snuggly under the covers, but his face is caked in sweat, dirt, and blood. Dean’s cracked lips are slightly parted, and he’s still snoring softly, dead to the world, which is unusual. From what little experience Cas has with sharing a bed with Dean, he’s found that Dean is a pretty light sleeper. He would have woken up the moment Castiel turned the light on.

                “Dean?” Cas whispers, reaching out and finding the mound of Dean’s shoulder under the blankets, shaking it gently, “Dean?”

                Nothing. No movement.

                Cas shakes him a bit harder, jostling his head on the pillow. “Dean,” he says, louder, and that earns him an incoherent little mumble before Dean stills once again, his forehead creasing momentarily and then smoothing back out.

                Despite his concern, Castiel can’t help but smile a little at how childish Dean looks, curled up under the blankets, cheek mashed into the bedding. Cas turns, sitting up all the way and placing his other hand on the top of Dean’s head, stroking his sweaty temple with one thumb.

                “Dean, come on, wake up,” he coaxes, shaking him again and leaning in close to his face. Dean reeks of alcohol beneath the smell of cigarettes and weed.

                _Oh_ , Castiel thinks. Dean must be drunk. It would explain why he’s not responding. Last time Castiel heard from Dean, Dean was over at Crowley’s apartment. It would explain why he’s intoxicated. Cas appreciates that Crowley doesn’t bully him anymore, has even helped him a few times, but he doesn’t like the influence the Brit has over Dean. It seems every time Dean hangs out with Crowley, he turns up smelling like booze and hazy with drugs.

                Castiel chews on his lip, debating what to do. He could just go back to sleep, and figure out what happened in the morning. But it makes him nervous to think about just ignoring Dean when he’s this unresponsive. Maybe he can just wake him up briefly and have him drink a glass of water or something. Or at the very least, just make sure he doesn’t have alcohol poisoning.

                He strokes his thumb across Dean’s temple again, and shakes his shoulder one more time, harder than before. “Dean,” he calls loudly, glancing towards his bedroom door, half expecting Anna to come walking in. Dean doesn’t move.

                Nothing.

                Okay, it looks like Castiel is going to have to do this the hard way.

                “I’m sorry,” he whispers guiltily, and then lifts his hand from Dean’s head, delivering a single, sharp slap to Dean’s cheek.

                Dean sputters, thrashing violently, shooting straight up in the bed, eyes flying wide open in alarm, the blanket falling off of him and settling around his waist.

                “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Castiel says frantically, reaching out and grabbing Dean’s shoulder to steady him. Dean flinches at the contact, blinking blearily down at Castiel’s hand, and then groans, all energy expended. He flops back into the pillows, rolling onto his side and squinting in the dim light.

                Castiel’s forehead creases and he reaches down, pulling one of Dean’s eyelids open wider for a moment. His pupils are blown wide, so dilated that Castiel can barely see a sliver of green around them. Dean’s high on something too.

                “S’mmy, cut it out,” Dean slurs, reaching up and slapping Castiel’s hand away from where he’s examining Dean’s eye.

                Cas snorts a little, despite the fact that this shouldn’t be funny. It’s dangerous to mix drugs and alcohol, and Dean is really far gone from the looks of it.

                “Dean, it’s Castiel,” he says, placing his hand on the side of Dean’s face, “Cas. Not Sam.”

                Dean’s eyebrows press together and he blinks a few times, his gaze skittering around the room behind Castiel for a moment like he’s seeing something that’s not there. Cas shivers a little at the sight of Dean’s eyes. It’s disconcerting seeing them this way, almost completely black with his pupils blown so wide, like someone possessed.

                Then Dean’s black eyes settle on Castiel finally, hazy and distant. Dean sort of blinks for a moment, flinching at something that isn’t there, and then a tiny smile curls the corners of his mouth. He reaches out towards Castiel’s face, his dirty fingertips brushing the skin just below Cas’s eye.

                “Swimmin’ pools,” Dean mumbles with a watery grin, his hands twitching. Castiel has no idea what that means, but he chuckles anyway. In his mind, he’s trying to remember from health class all the drugs that cause your pupils to dilate like Dean’s are now. He can’t recall any off the top of his head, mostly because he’s still a little tired from waking up randomly in the middle of the night. He’ll have to do some research.

                Dean’s fingertips trail down Castiel’s cheek, and then land on his shoulder, sliding all the way down his arm. Dean’s large calloused hand feels cold when it wraps around Castiel’s, but Cas allows him to hold his hand, brushing his thumb over his knuckles.

                “Dean, what did you take?” he asks, wiping a smudge of dirt off of Dean’s cheekbone with his thumb and brushing his messy hair back from his forehead.

                Dean just flinches and snickers a little, and then his black eyes fall closed again. He nuzzles his face a few times into the pillow he’s laying on, like the fabric is the most amazing thing he’s ever felt, and then stills. Castiel stares at his bloodied face for a moment, watching as Dean falls back asleep in less than a minute, and then Cas sighs.

                So much for getting him a glass of water.

                Castiel stares at him for another long moment, and then glances behind himself at his clock on his nightstand. It’s a little after one in the morning. Dean must have shown up around midnight or thereabouts because Castiel only went to bed a couple hours ago. He twists and spots Dean’s clothing strewn across the floor, dirty and a little bloody. His shoes are caked in mud and leaves and tree sap. He must have taken a shortcut through the woods to get here. Castiel wonders how he found his way in the condition he’s in.

                Sighing again, he rubs at his eyes tiredly, yawning, and then looks down at Dean’s hand wrapped tightly around his. Dean’s knuckles are bloody and dirty, and there’s mud caked under his short fingernails. Cas rubs his thumb gently over the scrapes on Dean’s knuckles, wondering if maybe he got in a fight tonight or something.

                With another yawn, Castiel shifts, and is just about to lay down again and go back to sleep when he sees it.

                A tiny mark just below the knob of Dean’s wrist.

                Cas cocks his head in confusion and turns Dean’s hand over a little, angling the tiny mark towards the light. As he does so, he spots another one. And another. They sort of look like chicken pox on the inside of Dean’s forearm.

                Castiel’s forehead crinkles in confusion, and he turns Dean’s arm over as best he can without jostling Dean too much where he has begun to snore again into the pillow.

                The pale, freckled skin on the inside of Dean’s forearm is completely covered in little circular marks, most perfectly round, some little ovals, all in various stages of healing. Several of them look very fresh, while others are pink and shiny, scarred over.

                What the hell?

                Castiel reaches out with his free hand and trails his fingertips very gently over some of the older marks.

                He’s still fairly tired, so it takes him a minute to figure it out.  

                When he realizes that this is the arm that Dean usually wears an Ace bandage around, all the pieces suddenly fall into place, and he feels a sickening lurch in his stomach.

                He can’t help it. He pulls in a sharp breath, angling Dean’s arm towards the light even more and leaning in close to examine the marks. No, not marks. _Burns_. They’re burns, some already healed, and others only a couple days old.

                “No,” Cas breathes in disbelief and horror, his fingertips hovering over the little circular holes. He could be wrong about this. He really could be. There are a lot of explanations for these marks, he’s sure. He just can’t think of any right now.

                Dean _is_ a smoker. It’s possible that sometimes he accidentally gets burned.

                But that isn’t right. You don’t _accidentally_ get burned this many times. Castiel can’t even count all the little marks, some of them overlapping each other, others fading to the same pale shade of Dean’s olive skin.

                He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to believe it. His eyes dart to Dean’s sleeping face, and despite the intoxication, Dean looks so peaceful, eyelashes fanning out across his dirty cheeks, hair a tangled mess, cheek bulging a little where it’s pressed to the pillows again.

                Could Dean have done this to himself?

                And more importantly, how could Castiel not have _known_ Dean was doing this to himself? All this time, they’ve been sleeping together and hanging out at school, and Castiel has never noticed. Never taken the time to really _look_.

                God, he feels so _selfish_.

                No. No, he has to make sure. He could be wrong. These marks could be something else, couldn’t they? A rash, or measles. The plague. Anything.

                With a shaky breath, Castiel turns and scrambles for his phone off his nightstand, fumbling with it a few times one-handed. His other hand is still trapped in Dean’s grasp in his lap, and right now he really doesn’t want to jostle it. It takes him a few tries to get his password right, and he clicks onto the internet, waiting for the slow Wi-Fi in his house to catch up.

                While he sits impatiently waiting for Google to load, he looks back down at Dean’s arm. He feels a thick lump form in his throat at the sight of the marks. Could Dean really be this low? Feel so sad that he could do something like this to himself? Castiel has been depressed before, but never like this.  How the hell could he be so _blind_ to some else’s suffering like this? And it hurts even more to think that it’s _Dean_ laying here with these mutilations on his arm.

                Is this the big secret that Dean’s been hiding? Castiel knows he’s been hiding something – could this really be it?

                But Cas has to make sure. Has to know for sure that that’s really what they are. They could be anything. Oh _please_ make them be anything else.

                When the internet finally loads on his phone, he types in _cigarette burns_ into Google. Pictures of wood furniture and clothing and carpet with ashy burns on them pop up, and he growls in frustration, going back up to the search bar and adding _on skin_ after _cigarette burns_.

                The pictures that pop up make his blood run cold.

                Not because he hasn’t seen photographs of bad injuries before, but because the images look _exactly_ like the marks on Dean’s forearm in front of him right now.

                _No_. _No, no, no_. Castiel shakes his head in disbelief, his phone slipping from his fingers, and he reaches down, wrapping his free hand gently around Dean’s forearm, cradling the mutilated skin tenderly. He leans down and presses his lips to the inside of Dean’s wrist, feeling a steady pulse there.

                He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until one of his tears drips off the bridge of his nose and lands on the cigarette burns on Dean’s skin.

                He shakes his head again, his vision swimming, head aching, and he rubs gently at the burns like rubbing them enough will make them disappear.

                “Oh Dean, how could you do this to yourself?” he whispers, looking up at Dean’s sleeping face. He snakes his hand up and presses his palm tenderly to Dean’s cheek, cradling his face, feeling completely helpless.

                All this time, Dean has been smiling and laughing and acting completely normal, having movie nights and hanging out at Hautley’s Bend and making origami with Castiel, and underneath his sleeve, he’s been hiding this mess. It makes Castiel wonder what’s really going on in Dean’s head.

                He knew a girl in middle school who used to cut herself sometimes in the first floor bathroom. She used her scissors from her pencil bag, and afterwards, she would show all her friends the fresh cuts on her arm like they were a new tattoo or something. Apart from that, and what he’s learned in health class about self-harm, he knows next to nothing on the subject. All the harm that’s come to Castiel in his own life has been from external influence. A punch to the face or a kick to the stomach. What is he supposed to do now? He can’t just bring it up to Dean. Knowing Dean, that conversation topic will be shut down immediately.

                So what is he supposed to do?

                Maybe he can ask Cara Roberts to help, see if she can have Dean called to her office to talk about it. But Castiel isn’t sure how angry that would make Dean.

                Maybe he can make Dean breakfast in the morning and talk about it then? Cas has a feeling that if he tried to wake Dean up and ask him now, Dean wouldn’t even understand him, or wouldn’t remember it in the morning, he’s so drunk and high.

                _Fuck_.

                Castiel sits there for what feels like hours just staring at Dean, resting his hand over the marks on Dean’s arm, feeling silent tears trickling down his own cheeks at the sight of such unimaginable pain. It hurts Castiel in general to see anyone else suffering, but the fact that this is _Dean_ in pain right now is devastating. He wants to scoop Dean up in his arms and hold him tight enough that no one else can see him, or touch him, hurt him this way. He wants to shelter Dean enough that Dean doesn’t hurt _himself_ this way anymore.

                Castiel sniffs and sits up a little, loosening his suddenly-vice-like hold on Dean’s hand in his lap just slightly. He scrubs at his wet cheeks with his free hand for a moment, wiping the tears away, trying to pull himself together because he’s not _allowed_ to cry right now. He’s not the one with these marks on his arm, he’s not the one in pain. He shouldn’t be the one crying. It’s selfish.

                Wiping the back of his hand across his nose, he reaches out and starts to pull the blankets back up around Dean’s naked torso again where they fell down when Cas woke Dean up earlier…

                …and freezes.

                There they are.

                The scars.

                It seems sort of ridiculous to spot them now. Castiel forgot about them with the shock of discovering Dean’s self-mutilation marks. But there they are.

                Cas pulls the blanket back a bit, half-expecting to find Dean completely naked under there. But he’s in his boxers, and his smooth skin is covered in dirt and blood.

                Castiel has felt the scars on Dean’s side before. It’s kind of hard _not_ to feel them when they cover half of Dean’s torso and he and Dean have slept together now. But this is the first time Castiel is seeing them.

                He almost looks away, almost covers Dean up again, because this feels a little bit like an intrusion of Dean’s privacy, a violation of Dean’s personal space. Dean is sleeping, and obviously too inebriated to realize that he’s completely exposed in front of Cas for the first time, and Castiel feels like he’s taking advantage of that fact and looking at all these things.

                The self-harm marks are one thing. That was an accident, spotting those. But Castiel is choosing to look at Dean’s scars on his torso now.

                He feels guilt swimming deep inside him, but he doesn’t stop. He only hesitates briefly before pulling the blanket back all the way to expose Dean’s naked torso to the light.

                The scars are _beautiful_.

                They stretch across Dean’s side, up over the bars of his ribs and the trim muscles of his stomach, wrapping around to his back where Cas can’t see since Dean is on his side. The marred, off-white tissue continues down and disappears into the waistband of Dean’s boxers, and when Castiel pulls the blanket back more, he sees the end of the marking peeking out of the bottom of Dean’s boxer shorts where they’ve rucked up in his sleep, plastered across the side of Dean’s muscular thigh.

                Castiel stares at them for a long few minutes, reaching out and letting his hand hover over the twists and shiny stretches of marred flesh. When he touches them, they feel like when he felt them before, but somehow it’s even cooler to feel them now that he can see them. He trails his fingertips over the smoother, shinier parts, and revels in the feel of the bumps and twists.

                It’s like an entire universe plastered onto Dean’s side, just slightly paler than his untouched skin. Castiel could write poetry about the way the scars look adorning Dean’s side so beautifully.

                And to think that Dean always wants to hide them from Cas. He’s never said it outright, but the way Dean flinches, and the way he always wants the lights off when they sleep together, is answer enough.

                With a shaky sigh, Castiel draws his hand back, feeling just a couple lingering tears running down his face. He sits back on his heels, Dean’s hand still tightly held in his lap, and he just looks at Dean’s face. He doesn’t know what to do. There’s no way he can just go back to sleep now. He feels like he has to _do_ something, something to help Dean. But what? What the hell is he supposed to do, especially right now?

                Dean mumbles something in his sleep, snuffles, and then stills, his skin still cold to the touch.

                Castiel eyes the dirt and the blood and the little scratches on Dean’s cheeks, on his arms. He eyes the gorgeous expanse of scars on his torso, eyes the cigarette burns on his forearm with another sickened lurch in his gut.

                A shower. He could give Dean a shower.

                Dean is filthy, and Castiel feels like he has to do _something_ right now.

                With a shaky sigh, he reaches for Dean’s shoulder again.

                It takes him less time to shake Dean awake for a second time, and when he does, Dean blinks his eyes open again, his forehead pinched in distress, glaring up blearily at Cas with a mumbled “S’mmy, leave m’alone.”

                “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” Cas whispers, his voice cracking with his tears, pushing the blankets the rest of the way off of Dean and sitting him up slowly.

                Dean groans and bats at his hands a little bit, but gives up after a couple seconds, slumping weakly against Castiel. He mumbles something about getting the birds out of the room, but Castiel isn’t sure if he actually hears that right. He slips out of the bed and pulls Dean along with him, and Dean follows without protest. It takes him a couple seconds to find his footing. He slips once and Castiel catches him before he can fall back into the bed again.

                Dean grumbles, breath reeking of alcohol, and flinches at something that Castiel can’t see. When he looks up and sees Dean’s eyes fixated on something across the room, pupils wide and black, Castiel wonders if maybe he’s hallucinating. It would make sense, with his eyes like that.  

                He loops Dean’s arm over his shoulders to support him, swallowing past the lump in his throat when those cigarette burns on his forearm come to rest inches from his face, and he starts walking Dean towards the door.

                Dean shuffles along with him, mumbling about something, his body feeling cold and his heart beating too fast next to Cas. Could be the drugs.

                Castiel shushes him softly as they wander out into the hallway, and Dean loses his balance a little. Cas catches him, his fingers digging in under Dean’s ribs, and Dean snorts and giggles, squirming as the fingers tickle him. Cas huffs a little laugh, adjusting his hand so it’s not tickling Dean anymore, and then all but drags him the rest of the way to the bathroom, glancing at Anna’s door once to make sure it stays closed. He can hear her snoring from the other side.

                He sets Dean down on the toilet seat when they get to the bathroom, and then closes and locks the door. The shower is a walk-in with a glass door, and he turns the knob, starting the stream of water before testing the temperature with his hand for a moment. When he turns back around, Dean is leaning tiredly against the counter, eyes closed, head drooping. Castiel is going to have to make this quick.

                He strips down out of his sweatpants quickly before walking over and standing Dean up again, helping him out of his boxers and guiding him towards the shower.

                When they step under the spray of warm water together, Dean jerks and starts to protest at first. But Castiel holds him from behind, shushing him softly, and a moment later, Dean relaxes again, shuddering as the water warms his cold skin. Castiel allows him some time to adjust to standing before he reaches out and grabs the bar of soap out of the dish in the wall, lathering up Dean’s back with it. The water sluices off of Dean’s scars like oil, and Castiel marvels at it as he cleans Dean of blood and grime.

                The water runs a dirty shade of brownish-red down the drain.

                As Cas scrubs Dean clean, he unveils little cuts and scrapes all over him, and wonders what he and Crowley got up to the past couple days. When he turns Dean around to get his front, he winces in sympathy at how horribly beaten Dean’s body looks. Castiel has already seen the gash on Dean’s forehead at school that Dean won’t explain, but it’s different now, seeing it under the bright lights of the bathroom. Everything looks worse. The gash and the bruising around it look harsher here.

                When Cas looks down at Dean’s body, he gently wipes soap over his scars, and spots a massive bruise in the shape of a foot on Dean’s opposite side, right across his ribs. The bruising looks bad, red and black and green, and Dean winces and whimpers a little when Castiel brushes his hand across it, like maybe he has a fractured rib or two. Cas apologizes in a whisper and Dean mumbles something in reply, but he’s got his eyes closed and he’s practically asleep under the spray of the shower.

                When Castiel has cleaned away all the stray blood and dirt on Dean’s torso, he moves down between his legs, and Dean stiffens a little, his eyes opening when Castiel cleans his cock. Cas makes sure to do it quickly, professionally, and when he moves on down Dean’s legs, he feels Dean relax again.

                When Castiel stands once more, he turns Dean around and tilts him forward, wetting his dirty hair and lathering it up with some of the fresh spring shampoo he uses. It smells different from the cheap lemon-lime scent usually clinging to Dean’s hair, but it’s better than the stench of cigarettes and sweat that’s there now.

                Castiel sets up a gentle rhythm, scrubbing at Dean’s scalp, and he feels Dean shiver, practically purring, bucking his head into the press of Castiel’s fingers once before relaxing. His head droops and he sways a little on his feet, and just when Castiel thinks Dean is about to fall asleep again, he pulls away and angles Dean’s head gently under the water again to rinse the shampoo clean. He keeps rinsing until the water running down the drain is no longer brown and red, but clear.

                Castiel doesn’t realize that his own hands are shaking until he turns Dean back around again. He’s not sure how much of the wetness on his face is tears, and how much is from the spray of the shower, but he’d rather not know. He feels that burning in the back of his throat like he’s crying, but he ignores it, looking at Dean’s face in front of his. Dean’s head is drooping, and his eyes are closed, and he’s breathing shallowly, relaxed, safe. It feels good to have Dean so safe here.

                Cas reaches up and tucks a knuckle under Dean’s chin, lifting his head a little. Dean’s eyes flutter open halfway, and he looks at Castiel, water droplets running down his cheeks like tears. A tiny smile tugs at one corner of Dean’s mouth, and he sways forward a bit, kissing Castiel once. It’s a gentle, barely-there kiss, and it seems that’s all Dean has the energy for.

                “Hey Cas,” Dean slurs, his lips barely moving, eyes falling closed again, and Castiel smiles shakily, sniffing once.

                “Hello Dean,” he replies, even though he’s pretty sure Dean can’t really hear him or isn’t paying attention.

                Castiel lowers his eyes and takes Dean’s hand again, lifting his arm up between them and looking down at the cigarette burns. They look puffy and strange in the brighter lights of the bathroom, maybe worse than they looked in the bed. They’re angry and red and _everywhere_ , up and down the inside of Dean’s forearm, and there’s a story behind each one, Castiel knows.

                He feels his chin quivering as he looks at the marks, and brings Dean’s arm up with his mouth, kissing the burns a few times, wishing them away. Dean makes a little noise under his breath, but his eyes are still closed, and he’s all but checked out of the whole situation.

                Castiel tears his eyes away from the cigarette burns then, leaning forward and winding his arms around Dean’s broad shoulders. Dean feels terribly small right now, though, and he sways when Castiel hugs him, his arms twitching at his sides. Cas tucks himself up close to Dean, their bodies warm and pressed together, and Dean's chin hooks over Cas’s shoulder almost incidentally, like that’s the only way he can hug him back right now.

                Castiel just holds Dean under the spray of the shower, rocking him slightly, trying to stop crying because it’s weak for him to be crying right now when Dean’s the one with the signs of torment all over his body, from the bruises to the scars to the cigarette burns. Dear god, what _happened_ to him?

                He has no idea how long they stand there like that, but Castiel belatedly realizes that he’s praying, just a whisper, under his breath.

                He hasn’t prayed since he was a little kid. And even then, he only did it because Naomi and Bartholomew told him that’s what he should do before he goes to bed every night.

                Castiel thinks maybe he might still believe in God after all, even if he doesn’t believe in church.

                Because he’s standing here hugging this broken boy, and he’s praying for him. He’s praying for Dean. He’s not really sure what he’s asking for, but he just knows that Dean is a lot more shattered than Castiel originally realized. He knew something was wrong, knew Dean was hiding something. Even now, Castiel has nothing but questions, but he never imagined it was this bad. Where did Dean get these bruises? Where did he get these scars on his side? Why does he put cigarettes out on his forearm?

                What happened to this boy?

                They stand there under the spray of the water for so long that it begins to runs cold, their skin pruning. Dean is slumped so heavily against Castiel, so limply, that Cas wouldn’t be surprised if Dean was asleep right now. He’s taken care of drunk people before, but Dean is clearly more than drunk. Falling asleep on his feet wouldn’t be unusual.

                When Castiel finally unwinds his hands from around Dean, twisting the water off, Dean snuffles a little and follows along blindly while Cas leads him out of the shower, wrapping him in a towel and drying him off, blotting gently at his mutilated forearm in the process.

                He dries himself quickly and pulls his sweatpants back on, and then leads Dean back to his room, scooping up his boxers on the way and taking another quick glance at Anna’s closed bedroom door.

                Cas fishes out a pair of sweats for Dean and a clean long-sleeved t-shirt from his closet. He understands now why Dean always wears long sleeves, and wants to make him as comfortable as possible now that he knows. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get Dean into the clothes, and they hang off of him, too-big around his already broad body, making him look small.

                Dean barely says two words, mumbling incoherently and huffing little breaths as Cas dresses him and then tucks him back into the bed. Dean rolls over onto his side and burrows into the blankets, damp hair spiky, falling asleep almost the moment his head hits the pillow.

                Cas takes a minute to pick up Dean’s discarded clothes off the floor, folding them up and setting them on his desk. Dean’s pack of menthol cigarettes falls out of the pocket of his jeans when Castiel picks them up, and Cas stares down at the little box for a moment, a heavy knot in his stomach.

                For some reason, he feels a sudden flash of anger, staring down at the cigarettes, like Dean’s pain is somehow _their_ fault. As if this inanimate object is responsible for the marks on Dean’s arm. Castiel grits his teeth and reaches down, snatching the cigarettes up from the floor and throwing them in the garbage can near his desk. It’s satisfying, throwing them away, but it’s not enough.

                Sighing, running his hand through his wet hair, he wanders back over to the bed, slipping in under the covers. It’s after two in the morning by the time he finally lays down again, spooning himself up behind Dean and wrapping his arms tightly around the boy. He cradles Dean’s injured forearm against Dean’s own chest, holding it in his hand, and Castiel buries his face against the side of Dean’s neck, closing his eyes and inhaling the clean smell of his skin.

                His chest hurts. He feels split open and raw, and he knows that it’s because of how broken Dean is. Castiel never realized how much Dean truly means to him until now. It _hurts_ like nothing else to see him this way, so shattered and mutilated. It breaks Castiel’s unbreakable heart.

                Cas squeezes his eyes shut harder and holds Dean tighter, wanting to just keep him here forever where nothing can hurt him anymore. He falls asleep hours later, to the sound of Dean’s drunken snores, the heat of Dean’s body in his arms, and the nagging worry and helplessness knotting uncomfortably in his throat.

 

*       *       *

 

                The moment Dean feels himself beginning to wake up, he knows he’s not at home in his own bed, or in Sammy’s bed. Whatever he’s laying on is just too damn comfortable to belong to him.

                That’s all he’s aware of for a while, how comfortable he is. Perfectly warm, surrounded by the softness of blankets and pillows like he’s floating on clouds. It’s a good way to wake up.

                At least, it is until he wakes up a little more and is greeted by a headache to rival all headaches. He winces and groans, snaking a hand up out of the blankets and pressing it to his head as if that will make the aching throb go away. He tries not to move much, for fear of making the headache worse, but when he manages to blink his eyes open, the pain only intensifies, and he groans again, pulling the sheets up over his face to block out the light.

                It takes him almost ten minutes to work up the courage to pull the blankets down again, and when he opens his eyes, squinting in the daylight, the first thing he sees is an origami penis.

                He would laugh, if he wasn’t in so much pain.

                He should have known where he was all along. The smell of Castiel is all over these pillows he’s laying on right now, a gentle, sweet smell like untamed grass and those little dandelion seeds that float through the air in the springtime. Despite the sharp throb in his skull, he smiles as he looks at the origami penis, remembering the night he made it for Castiel on this very bed. He enjoys the fact that Cas still proudly displays it on his nightstand like it’s a work of art.

                Dean stares at it for a while, and then lets his eyes trail across the room. He’s alone in the bed, he realizes, and far away somewhere he can hear muffled voices through the closed door. He spots his clothes stacked on Castiel’s desk across the room, and he feels a brief twinge of panic before he realizes he’s wearing some of Castiel’s clothes right now. He must have changed into them when he got here.

                When _did_ he get here? He doesn’t remember.

                He wracks his aching brain, searching his fuzzy memories for an answer. He remembers being at Crowley’s, smoking weed and drinking and watching comedy sketches. He remembers tripping on magic mushrooms, and seeing things, and swimming in the pool at Crowley’s apartment complex. He’s not sure what order these events occurred in, everything’s a bit fuzzy, but he knows at some point, he took more shrooms alone after Crowley went to bed.

                Oh. Oh yeah. That’s where everything kind of went to shit.

                Dean reaches up and rubs at his face, recalling the bad trip he had. He remembers at some point chugging half of Crowley’s scotch, and running through the woods trying to get home. It all gets a bit hazy after that.

                He must have blacked out somewhere in the woods. He can’t remember anything.

                Shit, _Cas_. Dean probably scared the ever-loving hell out of the guy showing up here drunk and high in the middle of the night. Dean tries hard to remember how exactly he got from point A to point B, but everything is just blank.

                Groaning, this time in humiliation, he rolls onto his back, staring up at the mobile above the bed and blinking exhaustion from his eyes. He feels like he got hit by a truck. Guess that’s what happens when you do drugs and drink for two days straight. His stomach twists with a little bit of nausea, but as far as hangovers go, this one isn’t terrible, all things considered.

                He _is_ hungry though. He tries to remember the last time he ate and can’t think of anything except for the McDonald’s he had with Crowley what feels like forever ago. He doesn’t want to get out of the bed, his body aching, but he does it anyway, because he knows there’s food somewhere in this house. And there’s also Cas. And seeing Cas first thing in the morning is always a good thing.

                Wait, is it morning?

                Dean sits up on the edge of the bed, moving slowly so as not to jostle his head, and looks over at the clock on the nightstand. It’s nine in the morning. He breathes a sigh of relief, wondering what time he got here last night. There a tall glass of water and two pills sitting on the nightstand with a small note next to them. Dean reaches out and picks up the note, squinting at the neat handwriting. Cas’s handwriting.

                **_Good morning Dean. Take these, for your head._**

                Dean can’t help but grin at the crappy drawing of a smiley face underneath the message, and he scoops up the pills, tossing them back and draining the glass of water. It sloshes in his empty stomach, but his throat was parched. If Castiel left these out for him, Dean must have been pretty wasted last night. He feels a pang of guilt as he pushes himself up from the bed, his knees cracking and body aching like he’d run a marathon yesterday.

                Maybe he ran here all the way from Crowley’s. Crowley lives about six or seven miles away, it’s no wonder he’s sore.

                Dean glances down at the clothes hanging loose off his body. He’s wearing the sweats he always borrows when he sleeps over here, and a long-sleeved shirt with some sort of tribal mask print on the front. Dean touches the fabric over his chest, hoping Cas doesn’t mind that Dean apparently raided his closet.

                When he wanders barefoot out into the hallway, he can hear Castiel’s gravel-rough voice coming from downstairs, and a moment later, the wind chime sweetness of Anna’s. There’s silverware clinking, and sizzling sounds, and Dean can smell cooking onions. His mouth waters and his stomach whines at him.

                But he turns towards the bathroom first, to take a piss and at least splash water across his face. He doesn’t _feel_ dirty, but he didn’t take a shower at Crowley’s, so it’s been a couple days. Such is the life of a burnout like Dean Winchester.

                He doesn’t look nearly as bad as he thought he would when he steps up in front of the mirror in Castiel’s bathroom. He thought there’d be sweat and dirt all over his face from running through the woods. Maybe Cas cleaned him up? Or he showered at Crowley’s apartment in a drunken haze or something?

                He gently fingers the little cuts and scrapes on his face, and lifts up his shirt to eye even more little bruises and scrapes on his stomach. Must have happened when he was in the woods. God, he’s an idiot.

                He steals a little bit of mouthwash from under Cas’s sink, and as he’s swishing it around, splashes his face with cold water to wake up the rest of the way. It helps a little with his headache, and after he spits out the mouthwash, he gives his armpit a smell test. He smells like Cas. Must be the clothes. At least he doesn’t smell like B.O.

                Blinking, trying to get rid of the headache, he takes a quick piss and washes his hands, checking to make sure Sammy’s elephant hair bracelet and amulet are still on him before wandering down the hall and down the creaking stairs. Castiel is at the stove with his back to Dean as he enters the kitchen, and Anna is at the table eating some sort of crazy mix of eggs and vegetables and meat, like a breakfast skillet.

                She looks up when he enters the room and a big grin spreads across her face. “Dean!” she exclaims, like she’s overjoyed to see him, and to his surprise, she jumps up from her chair and darts across the kitchen, throwing her arms around his middle in a big hug much like the hugs Sammy gives Dean sometimes.

                He sways a little when she crashes into him, still a little unsteady on his feet, and huffs a little laugh, hugging her back. “Hey squirt,” he replies, looking down at her as she looks up at him, resting her chin on his stomach and grinning widely.

                “What happened to your face?” she asks, eyeing the big gash on his forehead. He glances over at Cas looking at them from the stove, and then shrugs.

                “Dragon fight,” he replies, “But don’t worry, me and the guys took care of it. This is just a flesh wound.”

                Anna raises one brow at him and then rolls her eyes, pulling away. “Liar. Dragons don’t exist.”

                Dean shrugs. “That’s cause we slayed them all genius.”

                Anna snorts but says nothing more, plopping back down at her seat at the table and stuffing another forkful of eggs into her mouth, scribbling in what looks like a workbook, similar to the ones Sam has for homework. Dean smiles and glances over when Cas steps away from the stove, covering the cooking food with a lid and walking around the island counter. Dean meets him halfway and jolts a little in surprise when the first thing Castiel does is wrap his arms tightly, albeit carefully, around Dean.

                Despite his confusion, Dean melts against him and hugs him back, burying his face in Cas’s shoulder. Castiel holds onto him for a lot longer than Dean expects, almost like he hasn’t seen Dean is years, and when he finally pulls away, he has a strange look in his eyes. Dean’s forehead creases in worry, and he places his hand on the side of Cas’s face. “You okay?” he asks, and Cas stares at him for a moment, weird emotions flitting across his face, and then nods, giving Dean a small smile and leaning in to kiss him once on the mouth, their lips dragging together in a long, drawn out peck.

                “Good morning,” Cas greets, his hands lingering on Dean’s sides for a moment. Dean smiles and takes in the crystalline blue of Castiel’s eyes for another moment before finally pulling away. Cas’s eyes look different this morning. There’s something in them that sets Dean’s stomach on edge a little. He wonders if he did something last night to upset him.

                As Cas turns and walks back to the stove to stir the vegetables, Dean wanders up and stands beside him, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Shit man, I’m sorry,” he says, flushing red in embarrassment, “I didn’t mean to break in last night. I must’ve really scared you.”

                Cas huffs a small laugh, looking over at Dean with that strange look as he stirs the food. “Do you remember anything?”

                Dean blushes harder and shakes his head no. “I don’t even remember coming here. I guess drunk me likes you,” he chuckles.

                Cas smiles, raising one eyebrow. “Not just drunk,” he points out, and Dean bites his lip, glancing down at his bare feet and scuffing his heel against the floor.

                “I took some shrooms,” he admits, keeping his voice down a little so Anna doesn’t overhear. She’s not even paying attention, too busy working out some problem in her book.

                Cas regards him with watery eyes, reaching up with his free hand and placing it on the side of Dean’s face, thumb brushing over one of the little scrapes on his cheek. Dean leans into the touch a little, too tired to act like he doesn’t love it when Cas cradles his face like this. “Are you alright?” Castiel asks earnestly, and Dean sighs, his headache already fading.

                He steps closer and kisses Castiel again. “I am now,” he replies softly when he pulls away. They stare at each other for a second, and then Castiel breaks the gaze, glancing down at the food. He switches off the stove and removes the pan from the heat.

                “Are you hungry? I made enough for both of us.”

                Dean’s stomach growls. “Starving,” he replies, stepping back so Castiel can dish out two plates of the egg mixture. It’s colorful and smells like heaven, and Dean’s mouth waters as he accepts his plate from Cas.

                Anna is just finishing her food when Dean and Castiel sit down, and she clears her plate before taking her workbook and wandering into the living room. Dean flicks her shoulder as she walks past and Anna swats him with her book in return.

                “No TV while you’re doing homework,” Castiel calls after her, and she grumbles in reply, disappearing into the living room. Dean and Cas fall silent, and Dean sneaks a couple glances up at Castiel while they eat. Cas is sitting a little closer to him than is strictly necessary (not that Dean’s complaining), and he still has that weird look in his eyes. He keeps glancing up at Dean, keeps drawing in a breath like he’s going to say something, but then remains quiet.

                Dean raises one eyebrow. “You sure you’re alright?” he asks, talking through a mouthful of potatoes and onions. Cas stares at him for a moment, and Dean can tell there’s _something_ right on the tip of his tongue that he wants to say. But then, Cas just sighs and smiles, reaching out and taking Dean’s hand.

                “Everything’s fine,” he replies, pouring Dean a glass of orange juice from the pitcher resting in the middle of the table. Dean shoots him a grateful look and drains the juice before finishing up his food. He realizes belatedly that Castiel barely has three bites of his own food, and studies him while Cas clears both their plates for him.

                Cas is a weird guy, sure, but there’s something going on. He’s spent enough time with him to know that something is off. But he doesn’t say anything. Cas will talk about it, when he’s ready, he supposes.

                Dean offers to do the dishes, but Castiel waves him off and says not to worry about it, so Dean shrugs and kisses his cheek really quick before wandering back upstairs and changing out of Castiel’s clothes into his own. His clothes are filthy and smell like cigarettes, but he tells himself he’ll just change when he gets home. He has to go pick up Sammy from the Singer’s soon anyway.

                He pats his pockets, looking for his phone in case he has any missed calls from him. When he doesn’t find his phone, he curses and glances around the room, and somewhere deep, deep in his subconscious, he vaguely remembers dropping his phone somewhere in the woods. _Fuck_. He’ll have to go out there and find it before he goes to pick up Sam. It’s got to be somewhere between here and Crowley’s apartment.

                Grumbling to himself, he scratches the back of his aching head and wanders back downstairs. Cas is just finishing cleaning up in the kitchen when Dean walks back in. He walks up behind him and brackets Cas against the counter with an arm on either side of his body, leaning over his shoulder and nipping playfully at his jaw. Cas’s cheek lifts in a smile, and he turns around, capturing Dean’s lips in a kiss that feels a little too desperate, a kiss that says a thousand things Castiel is too afraid to say himself.

                When Dean pulls away, he studies Castiel’s face in concern for a moment, but Cas just holds onto him for a while, hugging him and kissing him like he’s never going to see Dean again. He’s acting so strange.

                When Dean tells him he’s got to go pick up Sammy, Castiel nods and walks him to the front door, and they kiss in the hallway for another five minutes before Dean finally manages to get out the door. He wants nothing more than to stay at Castiel’s all day and lay in his bed making out with him. They haven’t had a chance to spend the night together or anything since the night in the hayloft last week.

                But he has to go. He has to pick up Sammy and face that whole problem. Maybe today’s the day Sam will talk about his mental breakdown. Maybe today’s the day Dean will convince Sam that Mary Winchester’s death wasn’t his fault. Maybe…just maybe. Dean’s feeling a little hopeful.

                He glances back and waves at Cas standing in his doorway watching after him, and then tucks his hands into his pockets, balling his fists in the chill of midmorning. It’s sunny out, but it’s still cold in the early-February breeze. He pats his pockets for his cigarettes, but finds only his lighter and wallet. _Huh, weird_ , he must have lost his smokes somewhere in the forest last night too.

                Shrugging, he takes a trip through the woods first, and it takes him almost two hours to finally find his cell phone in some brush about a half mile from Crowley’s apartment. Thankfully, it didn’t rain or snow last night and when he turns on his phone, he has a text from Crowley asking if he got home okay, and a text from Sammy calling him a jerk. He snorts when he reads that and shoots a quick _Bitch_ back in reply before stomping his way out of the woods and heading down the street towards the Singer’s house.

                On the way, he gets a text from Castiel, saying that he misses Dean already, even though it’s only been a couple hours. Dean smiles as he reads it, and sends a winky face back, telling Cas to keep the bed warm for him, and even though he can’t shake this weird feeling in his gut that something was _off_ about Castiel this morning, he still smiles when Cas sends back a picture of himself laying in his bed and smiling up at the phone, a little blurry since it looks like Castiel took the picture himself.

                Dean huffs a little laugh, and sets the photo as his phone background, staring at it for a few minutes before tucking his phone into his pocket and smiling for the rest of his walk to Bobby's house.


	25. The Calm Before The Storm

                Castiel is a coward. He’s decided that by now. It’s been three days since he discovered Dean’s mutilated arm, and he hasn’t for the life of him been able to work up the courage to bring it up to Dean. He doesn’t know _how_. That’s not something one just brings up in polite conversation.

                And besides, outwardly, Dean seems fine. Happy, even. He smiles, and laughs, and kisses Castiel hungrily like everything is perfectly okay. He’s such a good actor, so good at faking it, that Castiel has even second-guessed himself, questioned whether or not he _actually_ saw what he did on Dean’s arm three days ago. Maybe he was dreaming? Maybe Dean doesn’t really burn himself, hurt himself the way Castiel thinks he saw.

                But then Cas notices the way Dean always wears long sleeves, and the way he sometimes cradles his arm in his lap like it’s sore. He notices little things about Dean’s expressions, little shifts here and there. Like the mask is slipping. And then he knows what he saw was real. He knows there’s so much more going on in Dean’s head than Dean is letting on. His behavior almost reminds Castiel of the way Dean used to be, back in the early days when he still hung out with the Cancers and bullied Castiel just like the rest of them. That mask that Dean used to wear, cold and hard and impersonal, when Castiel could see that there was something else there in Dean’s eyes.

                At least the mask Dean is wearing now isn’t the same one. Dean isn’t pretending to be a brute now and going along with his friends. But at the same time, the mask Dean is wearing now is almost _scarier_. Because Dean smiles, and goofs around, and laughs at Charlie’s jokes, and rolls his eyes at Gabriel’s cold shoulder, and gives Castiel stupid Eskimo kisses just to be cheesy. He’s so frighteningly _okay_ that it sets Castiel’s stomach on edge. Like everything’s going to come crashing down in an instant. Like Dean is going to implode.

                Cas has his own experiences with wearing masks like that, hiding yourself from people. For most of his life, it was self-preservation, keeping a stoic demeanor in the face of bullies and tormentors. Later on, it was more for Anna’s sake than anything else. He didn’t want her to see how broken he sometimes felt when he would come home with another black eye or another split lip. Castiel wonders if Dean does it to protect Sam. If Dean does it to protect _him_.

                Maybe he’s over-thinking it too much. Maybe Dean really _is_ okay. Maybe the marks on his arm are old, and he’s worked through those problems, and he just hasn’t told Castiel yet that he was once so sad.

                But no. No, that’s not right. Because some of those marks on his arm couldn’t have been more than a couple days old. Some of them still had blisters.

                Dean is not okay. Not at all.

                They’re sitting at lunch together on Wednesday afternoon, like they always do. Dean’s carved himself a little place in Castiel’s friend group, and Charlie and Dorothy have welcomed him warmly as part of the gang. They banter and goof off just like any friends would. Gabriel is still an ass towards Dean, but Dean doesn’t seem to be affected too much by it. He told Castiel once that he deserves the way Gabe treats him because of the way Dean treated Cas for so long. Castiel doesn’t think that’s true, thinks that Dean has more than made up for what he did, but he’s so far been unsuccessful in making Gabriel understand that.

                Gabe is still sitting with them at lunch of course, like always, but he sits as far from Dean as possible and more or less ignores him throughout the whole meal. Dean tries sometimes to talk to him, but Gabe doesn’t give more than a few clipped replies and sarcastic retorts that only serve to make Dean roll his eyes and go back to nerding out with Charlie about some new episode of an obscure show on the Sci-Fi channel, or arguing about whether Kirk and Spock are secret lovers or not (Charlie is sold on the idea, but Dean leans more towards Spock being with Nyota).

                Today, Castiel picks at his food, half-listening to the conversation, half-zoning out, watching Dean throw a rubbery pepperoni from the top of his microwavable cafeteria pizza slice at Charlie and laughing when it lands in her milk. Even though Castiel is filled to the brim with worry and helplessness, he still can’t help but smile whenever Dean laughs, his big green eyes crinkling at the corners as he throws his head back, putting his whole body into it. They sit close together, their legs touching under the table, and every so often, when Dorothy and Charlie start chattering with each other, Dean will lean over and give Castiel a small kiss and a soft smile that make Cas’s heart clench in his chest.

                Castiel has never exactly been a very talkative guy, even at lunch before Dean hung out with them. But Dean seems to notice that Cas is being quieter than usual and keeps asking if Cas is okay. Castiel forces a smile and weaves his fingers through Dean’s and tells him he’s fine, that everything’s fine, because Castiel is a coward, as usual.

                When Gabriel makes gagging noises at their mild displays of public affection, Castiel gives him the small bag of gummy bears he purchased as a way to calm him down, like a child.

                Castiel barely eats any of his food, just pushes it around his plastic lunch tray and watches Dean goof around with the girls. He lets his eyes wander across the cafeteria, watching all the seniors chatter loudly and throw things at each other. Out the cafeteria windows, he can see the four remaining Cancers lounging at The Docks, little clouds of smoke puffing up into the air from their cigarettes every few seconds.

                Krissy Chambers walks by The Docks at one point, hugging her books close to her chest, dark hair swinging in the February cold. Castiel watches as Gordon and Alastair call out to her, probably insulting her, and when she ignores them, Gordon gets up and comes up behind her, fiddling with her long hair, tugging at it and playing with the strands tauntingly.

                Castiel’s eyes widen as Krissy rounds on him and lands an impressive punch right across Gordon’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the pavement. The other Cancers jump up in surprise, but Krissy is already turning back around and heading towards the school again. They don’t go after her, but instead walk over and pick Gordon up from the ground. Castiel smiles. Good for her, sticking up for herself like that. It’s more than Castiel ever did, that’s for sure.

                “Well I’ll be damned,” Dean says next to him, and Castiel blinks, looking over at him. Dean is looking out the window as well, watching Krissy walk away with an impressed look on his face. The silver winter sunlight highlights in graphic detail the gash still healing on Dean’s forehead, blotchy with yellow and purple bruises and angry red scabs.

                “She finally stood up for herself,” Castiel comments, and Dean looks over at him, huffing a little breath and shrugging.

                “She’s always been like that I think,” Dean says, pursing his lips, his cheeks coloring a bit in what Castiel can only assume is shame, “She’s thrown a few punches my way too, once upon a time.”

                Cas nods a little, looking back out the window at the Cancers gathering their bags and heading towards the cafeteria doors. “Have you spoken to her since you stopped hanging out with them?” he asks, nodding his head towards The Docks.

                Dean swallows as he looks out there and then tears his eyes away again, looking back at Cas once more. “What am I supposed to say? Sorry?”

                Castiel shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, “Sometimes sorry can make all the difference.”

                Dean stares at him for a moment, his eyes softening a little, and after a brief hesitation, he leans in and kisses Castiel again, just a peck, before pulling away and giving him a small smile. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see Dorothy and Charlie looking at them, and when they look over at the girls, Charlie and Dorothy exchange a glance and then say “Awww!” in sarcastic unison.

                “Shut up,” Dean laughs, throwing his plastic spoon at Dorothy. She swats it away and then both she and Dean scramble for it again, fighting over the utensil and giggling. Castiel smiles at their childishness, leaning back out of the way so he doesn’t catch an elbow to the face where Dean is battling for the spoon. Even Gabriel is smiling next to Dorothy, which makes Cas feel a little better. He hopes maybe one day Gabe will forgive Dean. After all, if Castiel can, so can Gabriel. Sometimes Gabe is too much like an overprotective big brother with a grudge.

                Cas glances up when he hears the cafeteria door opening across the room, and the Cancers walk in. Zach and Gordon come through the door first, and it looks like Zach is laughing at Gordon as Gordon prods at his newly sore face from Krissy’s punch. Castiel derives a certain amount of smug satisfaction from that, with good reason. Crowley is through the door next, and when he enters, he glances over and spots Castiel looking at him.

                To Castiel’s surprise, Crowley nods at him. It’s just a small nod, a simple gesture, but it means a lot in comparison to the sneers Crowley used to give him. Castiel nods back companionably, and next to him, Dean spots Crowley too and flips him the bird across the room. Crowley chuckles a little, and even though it’s too loud in the cafeteria to hear it, he sees Crowley mouth _fuck you_ in response.

                Alastair is the last to come through the door, and when he enters, his beady eyes immediately search the room, like they always do, every day. Castiel knows he’s looking for Dean, knows he has some kind of fucked up obsession with him. He locks eyes with Castiel first instead. Dean doesn’t even pay attention, too busy laughing and fighting over the plastic spoon to notice that Alastair is looking over here. Castiel is relieved by that a bit, because every time Dean happens to see Al, it always puts Dean in a bad mood.

                Alastair’s eyes flicker to Dean for a moment, and then back to Castiel, and he gives him that blank look that makes Castiel feel eerily cold. Cas would almost rather have Alastair giving him death glares like he used to before Dean stood up for him. Now it’s just blank stares, whenever they see each other. Alastair’s eyes are just dead and lifeless and yet promising something that Castiel can’t quite translate.

                Alastair is disturbed. There’s something _wrong_ with him. That’s the only explanation Castiel can come up with. He’s deeply disturbed and unnervingly fixated on Dean (and, in turn, sort of obsessed with Castiel, since Dean and Cas kind of come as a pair these days). Castiel knows that something must have happened between Dean and Al at some point, that they have a history, but it’s just… _wrong_ , the way Al is so fixated.

                Someone who doesn’t let something go the way that Alastair doesn’t seem to be letting Dean go is not completely right in the head. No one who does that is completely sane.

                Nevertheless, he keeps his eyes locked on Alastair’s as Al gives him that blank stare. It’s all he can do. He doesn’t think Alastair will actually do something about it, doesn’t think that Al will ever actually make a move other than to give that unnerving stare. It makes Castiel feel cold and squeamish inside, but he doesn’t think it’ll ever go further than that.

                Besides, Castiel has bigger problems to worry about right now than Alastair. Like making sure that Dean is okay, for starters.

                He follows the Cancers with his eyes until they leave the cafeteria, and then looks back down at his mostly-untouched food. Across the table, Dorothy whoops triumphantly, holding the plastic spoon up in the air as Dean leans over to try to snatch it back.

                “Give him hell, Red,” Dorothy says, presenting the spoon to Charlie, and Charlie accepts it with a nod.

                “Gladly,” she replies, and Dean sits back in surrender, holding up his hands.

                “Alright, alright, I’ll accept my punishment, just make it quick,” he grumbles, sitting up straighter to make himself an easier target.

                Charlie closes one eye and takes aim, flicking the spoon like a dart. It hits Dean right on the tip of his nose and bounces off, clattering to the floor. Charlie and Dorothy cheer and give each other a high five and Dean rubs his nose.

                “Yeah, yeah, keep laughing, this ain’t over,” Dean growls, slumping in his seat as the bell rings signaling the end of the lunch hour. Castiel smiles over at Dean, leaning in and kissing the tip of his nose better.

                “You’ll win next time,” he assures him, and Dean snorts.

                “Damn straight,” he replies, and all five of them stand, gathering up their trash and throwing it away on the way out the door. Charlie pats Dean’s head like a dog on the way out, and Dorothy gives him a cocky smirk before the two of them turn and walk away hand in hand down the hall towards their lockers. Gabe grins at Cas in farewell and spares Dean barely a glance before he too turns and walks away.

                Castiel and Dean head down to The Dungeon for math class together, stopping briefly by Castiel’s locker first. It still fascinates Castiel that people clear a path for Dean in the halls as they walk. Castiel only really noticed it when they started walking together down the halls, but it’s like everyone just quietly slips out of Dean’s way. It’s funny to Castiel, now that he’s gotten to know Dean better, that so many people are still afraid of him. Dean still has a bad reputation, and people still stay out of his way. Teachers still eye him carefully like they’re waiting for him to cause trouble. Dean is still seen as dangerous and troubled.

                It makes Castiel wonder how Dean acted even before Cas moved to Rail Pass, what all he did to get such a bad reputation. Missouri told him once that a lot of people associate Dean with his father, and Dean and Sam’s father has a bad reputation in this town too. Maybe that’s where it all started, and Dean just didn’t help things by being the way he used to be when he hung out with the Cancers.

                Whatever it is, Castiel actually finds it amusing, because he knows how gentle and sweet Dean can be when they’re alone. It’s also kind of nice too, not having to weave his way around people in the halls, hurrying through the crowds so he’s not late to his classes. When Dean walks with him, everyone in their way just _moves_ , clears a path, parting like the Red Sea. Castiel hides his smile as it happens again while they head towards math.

                Mr. Wyatt starts up his lesson on the quadratic formula right after the bell rings, and Castiel scribbles the date at the top of his fresh notebook paper, taking down notes on whatever he can despite the fact that he already knows the quadratic formula and its functions. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean is taking notes here and there in his own notebook, and Castiel spots the origami angel sticking out of the pocket on his binder, the one Castiel taught Dean how to make that night at Bobby’s shop.

                Cas feels a swell of affection when he sees that Dean still has the angel, and he bites his lip to keep from smiling, trying to pay attention to Mr. Wyatt as he cracks a bad math joke up front and a few students in the class laugh.

                At one point partway through class, Dean tears a page out of his notebook and scribbles something on it, folding it up and waiting for Mr. Wyatt’s back to be turned before he drops it on Castiel’s desk. Cas glances at the note and at Dean before peeking up front to make sure Mr. Wyatt isn’t looking. He plucks the note off his desk and unfolds it quietly, flattening it out to read it.

                All it says, in Dean’s messy scrawl, is **_Hey good lookin’_** with a little winky face drawn next to it. Castiel stifles a small laugh and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean grin and look down at his notebook to keep from laughing out loud.

                Castiel shakes his head and writes **_Pay attention, Dean_** in reply and folds up the paper, passing it back.

                Dean opens it a couple minutes later when Mr. Wyatt has his back turned again, and rolls his eyes when he reads it. He writes a reply and passes it back without bothering to fold it up this time and Castiel glances down to read it.

                **_Party pooper_** , is all it reads.

                Castiel rolls his eyes and writes **_Tell me the quadratic formula right now off the top of your head without peeking_** and passes the note back.

                Dean reads it and then raises an eyebrow at Castiel, as if to say _are you serious?_ Then, he shields his eyes from the chalkboard up front where the formula is displayed, and writes it down on the paper without peeking. When he passes the note back, Castiel checks over what Dean’s written twice. It’s perfect, and Castiel feels a little swell of pride in his chest. Underneath the formula, Dean wrote **_See? I don’t need to pay attention, I have a walking encyclopedia for a little brother to teach me everything._**

                Cas huffs a small laugh, glancing up to make sure Mr. Wyatt is still occupied before writing back **_You’re very smart too, Dean. Sam isn’t the only one._**

                When he passes it back, Dean snorts and shakes his head a little, like he doesn’t believe Cas, and that makes Castiel a little sad. But before he can say anything, Dean writes something else down and passes the note back.

                **_Wanna get outta here?_ **

                Castiel’s forehead creases in confusion and he looks over at Dean. Dean waggles his eyebrows and gives a saucy grin before raising his hand. When Mr. Wyatt turns back around, he pauses in his lesson. “Yes Dean?”

                “Bathroom?” Dean asks, and Mr. Wyatt nods his head towards the door.

                “Don’t forget a hall pass,” he says, before starting up his lesson again. Dean glances over at Castiel again with a wicked grin, and then stands, walking towards the door. Castiel eyes his trim figure up and down shamelessly as Dean leaves the classroom, taking one last look back at Castiel before disappearing into the hallway.

                Cas feels a little thrill in his gut, because he’s never been a troublemaker. He’s always had perfect attendance and perfect behavior in classrooms, but it feels _fun_ and _bad_ to go along with what Dean does. Castiel chews on his lip and glances at the chalkboard. He already knows all this stuff anyway, already learned it in Chicago in an advanced placement class at his old school, but the credits didn’t transfer over to this high school for some reason.

                He sighs, flipping the note over on his desk so no one reads it.

                _Fuck it_.

                He sneezes loudly, blushing a little because it sounds just about as fake as it is. Then, with a silent prayer that the skills he picked up in theatre club last semester were at least a little bit useful, he reaches up and clutches his nose before raising his hand.

                “Excuse me, Mr. Wyatt? I think I have a nosebleed,” he lies, sounding squeaky with his fingers pinching his nostrils, “May I step out for a moment?” Mr. Wyatt glances up, his forehead creasing, and then he gestures towards the door.

                “Of course, go ahead and get cleaned up,” he says, and Castiel nods in thanks, sliding out of his desk and clutching his nose the whole way to the door, grabbing a hall pass on the way out. The moment he gets out into the hallway, he drops his hand from his nose, grinning stupidly because that actually worked.

                He fiddles with the string on the hall pass as he makes his way quickly down the hall to the Dungeon bathroom, pushing his way inside. Dean is on him the moment he steps through the door, pushing him back against it the way Dean has done so many times before. His hand snakes out and clicks the lock shut quickly before he mashes their mouths together.

                Castiel smiles into the kiss, dropping his hall pass on the floor, his hands sliding up to rest on Dean’s sides, feeling the smooth ripple of muscles through Dean’s long-sleeved black Henley. Dean huffs a little breath as Castiel pulls him forward, pressing their bodies flush together from chest to groin.

                It’s been too long since they’ve been able to touch each other, to be together. Over a week actually. It’s been since the hayloft in Mr. Devereaux’s barn in the backwoods, and Castiel feels the deprivation in the way both of them shudder and roll their hips the moment there’s contact. Dean’s hands come up and weave through Castiel’s hair, holding their heads together, and in direct contrast to Dean's roughness, Castiel is the first one to plunge his tongue deep into Dean’s mouth, tearing a low groan from his throat.

                The sound of Dean groaning, heavy and low like that, is quickly becoming one of Castiel’s favorite sounds in the world.

                Their touch-starved desperation drives Castiel to grab Dean’s shoulders and flip them around, slamming Dean back against the door instead and startling a surprised sound out of Dean’s throat. He chuckles a little, but the sound is swallowed by Castiel’s lips again. Cas’s hands find their way down to Dean’s, and he pulls Dean’s arms up over his head, pinning his wrists to the wood of the door, holding him there and pressing as close as he possibly can against him, nipping hungrily at his plump lips and reveling in each little sound he drags from Dean’s throat.

                Dean submits willingly to Castiel’s control, allowing Cas to hold him there, pin him against the door, take over and lead each movement. He melts back against the wood, his head thumping against it, and Castiel feels a small curl of arousal bloom low in his abdomen at the feeling of holding Dean down, of dominating him.

                It only takes a couple minutes before they’re both panting and struggling to hold back their moans as they rut against each other. Dean twists his hands a bit in Castiel’s grip, but Cas just holds them tighter and smiles when he feels Dean shiver as a result. He makes sure to keep his grip on Dean’s hurt arm well above where he saw the burns the other night. The last thing he wants to do is hurt Dean, even if Dean hurts himself.

                They stand there kissing for almost five minutes, moving against each other, although not quite enough friction to get off, despite how much they want to. They’re still in school after all, and both of them still have a class after math to go to. It would be uncomfortable as all hell to go to class with come drying in their boxers.

                Castiel is the first one to break off the kiss, right when he feels precome start to leak a bit in his pants. He rests his forehead against Dean’s for a moment as both of them stand there panting, trying to catch their breath, their hips rolling together just a couple more times before they force themselves to still.

                Dean chuckles after a few moments, and Castiel hears him swallow with a click. He opens his eyes to find Dean’s cheeks flushed with arousal and his pupils blown wide. It reminds Castiel of how Dean’s eyes looked when he was high on the magic mushrooms the other night, and he grits his teeth for a moment, trying to shake those thoughts away for now.

                “Man, are you trying to kill me?” Dean breathes, still panting, and Castiel huffs a small laugh, finally pulling away a bit. He releases Dean’s wrists and they flop limply to his sides. They both wince a little as Castiel takes a step back and their crotches are separated, still achingly hard.

                “You started it,” he replies, and Dean snorts, pulling in a deep breath to try to calm down. He groans and palms his erection.

                “Both of us walking back into class sporting huge boners. That doesn’t look suspicious at _all_ ,” Dean chuckles, swaying forward and kissing Castiel one more time, carefully keeping his hands to himself.

                Cas huffs a small laugh and turns, walking over to the sink and turning on the cold water, splashing his face once with it to try and squash his arousal. Dean remains slumped against the door for a moment, and Castiel hears him chanting “Salad, salad, salad,” to himself over and over again. When Cas looks, Dean has his eyes closed and he’s taking deep, slow breaths.

                “What are you doing?” Castiel asks, grabbing a paper towel and wiping his face off.

                “Thinking of gross things to kill my hard on,” Dean replies, opening his eyes again and glancing at the wall. Maintenance still hasn’t fixed the hole Dean punched in the drywall the first time he and Castiel were in here together.

                Cas laughs. “Salad?”

                Dean raises an eyebrow. “Salad’s gross,” he replies, “Trust me, it works.”

                Castiel chuckles again and throws his paper towel away. All he has to do is think about sitting through church as a little kid to kill his boner, that dusty smell of old people and the hollow creaking of church pews as people shifted on them and cleared their throats. It works every time. He can feel his erection waning already. He inspects the front of his pants to make sure it’s unnoticeable.

                When he raises his eyes again, Dean is studying him with a speculative look in his eyes.

                “What?” Cas asks.

                Dean chews his lip for a moment and then finally straightens up from his slump against the door. “Do you wanna come over to my house tomorrow night?” he asks.

                Castiel blinks at him in surprise for a moment, but then quickly nods. “I’d love that,” he says, unable to help the smile that spreads across his face. He’s wanted to see where Dean lives for a long time now, and spend more time with Sam. The kid reminds Castiel a bit of himself.

                Dean smiles back. “Cool,” he says, “My dad’ll be out tomorrow night so we can cook dinner and stuff at my place with Sammy.”

                Castiel wants to ask why Dean’s father has to be gone before they make dinner together, but he holds his tongue, instead walking forward and weaving his fingers through Dean’s soft hair, kissing him once more, lightly. Not enough to get them going again, but just enough to express everything he’s too afraid to say.

                When they break apart, Dean looks a little dizzy, and Castiel chuckles. “You should probably go back first,” he says, “I’ll follow in a minute.”

                Dean nods and pulls away, turning and unlocking the door again. He glances back and winks once at Cas before slipping out the door, and Castiel snorts, walking forward as the door sinks closed again to retrieve his hall pass from the floor. He waits just a couple minutes and then wanders back to the classroom as well.

                He makes a big show of sniffing loudly and rubbing his nose as he gets back to the room, keeping up that charade of a nosebleed, and the teacher eyes him skeptically as he walks back in. When he sits back down, Mr. Wyatt’s gaze flickers between Dean and Castiel, and he rolls his eyes before continuing his lesson. Cas glances over at Dean with a little grin, and Dean chews on his own lip to keep from smiling too widely.

                Castiel writes **_You’re corrupting me_** on the note and passes it to Dean. Dean snorts a little and writes something down, passing it back.

                Cas feels a swell of affection in his chest again and blushes slightly when he reads Dean’s response: **_You love it._**

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean feels strangely good when he gets home that afternoon. He’s not really used to feeling like this, like any little thing could make him smile. There’s nothing particularly different about today that should be making him feel this way, but he finds himself humming as he makes his way into his front door, stubbing out his cigarette on the bricks of the house and flicking the butt into the window well on his way inside.

                His father is in the kitchen when he walks by, sitting at the table nursing a too-full glass of whisky and reading the newspaper. He must have gone to the liquor store – that’s the only time he gets newspapers, from the little stand next door. Dean eyes the bottle of whisky sitting on the table in front of his father. It’s about a fourth of the way empty already, but John is drinking from a glass instead of straight from the bottle, so he’s probably in a good mood. He only does that when he’s calm.

                Dean chews on the inside of his cheek and walks into the kitchen. “Hey dad,” he greets, dropping his backpack on the island counter and walking over to the fridge in the hopes of finding a beer left over. To his disappointment, they’re all gone, which means John must have polished them off sometime during the day. Dean steals one of Sammy’s grape sodas instead.

                “Dean,” John replies in greeting, flipping to the next page of the newspaper and taking a big swallow of his whisky, gritting his teeth as it goes down his throat. Dean doesn’t think he’d get away with jacking a bit of the whisky to add to his soda, but he eyes it longingly anyway. He’s not exactly sure how good whisky with grape soda would be, but he’s craving that buzz.

                “What are you doing home so early?” Dean asks, cracking open his soda, just making conversation. It’s rare that he gets to talk to his father when he’s in a good mood. Sometimes it reminds him of how John used to be before The Accident, but mostly it’s just depressing, because that John from Before doesn’t exist anymore.

                “No clogged drains left in Vermont today,” his father replies, taking another drag on the whisky. John works part time for the only plumbing company in Rail Pass, as well as occasionally picking up a shift at the garage in town to fix a brake line here or do an oil change there. Dean is surprised he’s kept his jobs so long, what with his habit of not _showing up_ for them and all so often. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone as forgiving as John Winchester’s bosses.

                He hums a little as he takes a sip of his grape soda. “Where’s Sam?”

                John nods towards the hall. “His room,” he replies, “He had some sort a project to do.”

                Dean’s stomach tightens a little at the mention of the project and he glances towards the hallway. Hopefully Sam has moved on to other family members for his lineage project and stopped digging into details about Mary. When John takes another gulp of his whisky, Dean sighs, already anticipating carrying his father to bed tonight when he’s too drunk to stand. He predicts that the entire bottle of whisky will be gone by the end of the night. Hopefully it’ll be a mild night. His ribs are still aching from the kick he took to them last week. He’s not ready to get in another fight with his father.

                Licking his lips, he grabs up his backpack and heads towards the hallway to join Sam.

                “Dean?” John calls, and Dean looks back. His father takes another smaller gulp of his whisky, draining his glass and pouring another one as he speaks. “I wanna take you boys out tonight for dinner. Be ready to go at six.”

                Dean stands there blinking for a moment. _What_? Is that a joke? “Why?” he blurts, before he can stop himself. He can’t even remember the last time John Winchester took his sons out for a meal. Or did _anything_ with his sons for that matter.

                John raises an eyebrow at him. “Can a father not spend time with his boys?” he asks, and there’s a fuzzy edge to his words like the alcohol is just starting to kick in. Dean swallows, his gaze flickering to the bottle for a moment and then back to John’s face.

                “Uh…okay, yeah,” he replies awkwardly, taking a step back away from his dad and towards the hall, “We’ll be ready at six.”

                John nods and fans out his newspaper again, kicking his feet up onto the chair next to him. His steel-toed boots _thunk_ on the cheap wood as he crosses his ankles. Dean stares at him for another moment and then turns on a heel, wandering down the hall to Sam’s room. He raps a couple times on the door with his knuckles and doesn’t wait for a reply before barging in. Sam is hunched over his chest working on homework, his little clock radio playing some sort of shitty country song on his nightstand.

                Dean closes the door behind himself and scoffs as he makes his way over to Sam’s bed, flopping back and smacking the clock radio off on the way.

                “Hey!” Sam whines, and Dean just rolls his eyes.

                “You’re not allowed to listen to that shit while I’m in here,” he says.

                “It’s _my_ room,” Sam grumbles, throwing his eraser at Dean. Dean grins a big-brother grin at Sam and throws his eraser back, missing by a few inches. It sails past Sam’s head and lands on the floor somewhere across the room.

                “Hey, what’s going on with dad?” Dean asks, keeping his voice low a bit as Sam stands and goes to retrieve his eraser.

                “What do you mean?”

                Dean flops down onto his back and tucks his hand behind his head, looking up at the stars and moons stuck to Sam’s ceiling, pursing his lips. “He wants to take us out to dinner tonight,” he says, “Is that not a little weird?”

                Sam shrugs as he sits back down in his chair. “Today is their wedding anniversary,” he says, hunching back over his homework and scribbling something down in his notebook. Dean’s forehead creases.

                “Whose?”

                Sam gives him a meaningful look, and Dean’s lips part. “Oh…” he says when he realizes Sam’s talking about John and Mary. They got married in February. Dean forgot.

                “Wait, how’d you know that?” Dean snorts.

                Sam doesn’t look up from his work. “Read it in one of the files,” he replies flatly.

                Dean studies his brother for a moment. The files. All the files from their father’s closet. Damn it, why the hell did dad keep those? He doesn’t say anything else, just looks back up at the ceiling again and chews on his lip, thinking to himself.

                Eventually, he rolls off the bed and grabs his backpack, pulling out some homework. He has nothing better to do anyway, may as well do some homework. It doesn’t hurt, after all. His grades are probably in the toilet.

                He and Sam sit in relative silence for the next few hours, working on their respective homework assignments. Dean periodically texts Castiel, smiling whenever Cas replies with some sort of witty retort. He has to force himself not to think about the bathroom today. He doesn’t want to pop a boner in front of his little brother. But he can’t help but grin to himself. Sam notices and asks him what’s wrong with him. Dean rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply, just going back to reading from his history textbook that he’s not really absorbing any information from.

                When six-o-clock rolls around, Sam steps into his shoes and they head out to the garage with John, filing into the Impala. Dean takes the passenger seat, shoving Sam into the back with a laugh. Sam swats his head in return.

                Half of John’s whisky was gone when Dean passed the kitchen, and his father is swaying a little as he walks. But he’s a heavy drinker in general, so half a bottle isn’t enough to make him pass out or anything. Still, Dean carefully watches his hands and the lines on the road as John drives, making sure he’s not about to crash or get himself pulled over while he’s drunk behind the wheel.

                Dean recommends Benny’s Cajun place for dinner and they all agree on it. The car ride is completely silent the whole way. Dean has to park the Impala because John can’t parallel park while he’s this tipsy, and then they head inside. Dean keeps Sam close by, and they watch their step around their father. John is right about at the point in his drunkenness where the scale could tip either way. He could be in a good mood for the rest of the night, or a violent one. There’s no in-between when he’s drunk.

                Benny salutes Dean with a spatula from the window of the kitchen in the back when they walk in, and Dean nods in reply, sliding into a booth on the same side as Sam, across from John.

                Dinner is awkward, admittedly. They’re not used to having family dinners together, and on top of the fact that Sam and Dean hardly ever spend any time with John, they keep getting weird stares from some of the locals. John Winchester has a worse reputation in this town than Dean does, and whenever he’s out in public, he gets stared at. Dean squirms uncomfortably in his seat, but eats his crawfish in silence with his eyes down.

                He and Benny exchange an odd glance here and there throughout the hour or so that they’re in the restaurant. Benny knows enough about John Winchester to know that it’s unusual to see him out with his boys, and at the end of the meal, Benny gives them all free pie, shooting Sam and Dean a sympathetic little eye roll as John orders his third beer. Dean hides his humorless snort behind a bite of pie.

                By the time they leave, John smells like a distillery, and Dean tries to convince him to give Dean the keys. But John just bats his hands away and climbs into the driver’s seat. Dean sighs and makes sure Sam has his seatbelt buckled tight before they drive away. The Impala swerves all over the road on the way home, and Dean tenses in his seat every time they get too close to the oncoming headlights. But they make it home more or less in one piece, the car parked crookedly in the garage.

                John claps them on the backs as they head back into the house, and Dean and Sam thank him politely for the dinner before heading back to Sam’s room. They can hear John out in the kitchen finishing off the rest of his bottle of whisky, and reading that newspaper over, probably having forgotten what he read earlier already.

                They finish up their homework and then chat for a while. Dean steers clear of the subject of Sam’s family lineage project. Sam’s been doing better. He hasn’t had any nightmares the past few days, and he’s been smiling more again. The weekend at the Singer’s house did him some good, playing video games with Jo and cooking with Ellen just to get away from all the crap in the Winchester house.

                Dean gets him talking about Jess and what they’ve been up to together to keep him in his good mood until they hear John stumble down the hall and into his bedroom for the night. Then Dean tucks Sammy in his bed and blows out all his candles, filling the room with the acrid smell of smoke. Sam switches his radio back on to that country channel and Dean rolls his eyes as he leaves the room and shuts the door, heading down the hall to the bathroom for a quick shower.

                When he finally falls onto his mattress in his room, hair damp and skin clean, he texts Cas once just to say goodnight, and then spends the next fifteen minutes looking at the picture on the background of his phone, the blurred photo Cas sent of himself laying on his bed. It makes him smile, even though he’s seen it so many times, and he falls asleep to thoughts of blue eyes and the memory of hands wrapped around his wrists.

 

*       *       *

 

                It’s midmorning the next day when Dean is wandering down the hall at school and happens to spot Gabriel standing at his locker several meters away. Normally, when Dean sees Gabriel outside of lunch, he sort of turns and heads the other direction to avoid him. It’s not that he dislikes Gabe, but Gabriel doesn’t like him, and Dean can’t find it in himself to blame the guy.

                Today, though, instead of continuing on his way down the hall, or turning and heading the other direction, Dean stops. He’s not exactly sure why, but he thinks it might have something to do with what Castiel said yesterday about apologies, and how saying sorry is sometimes all anybody really needs to hear.

                Dean’s not sure whether he really deserves forgiveness for everything he did to Castiel in the past, but it would be nice to find some common ground with Gabriel. Enough is enough, right? The guy has made it explicitly clear how he feels about Dean with his little snarky comments and eye rolls at lunch. Maybe it’s time he had a talk with the guy.

                And that’s how Dean finds himself walking towards Gabriel instead of away from him for once. Gabe is too busy juggling books at his locker, his back turned, to notice that Dean is walking up, so when Dean grabs his arm and drags him through the door into the stairwell a few feet away, he lets out an undignified squawk and smacks at Dean’s grip.

                Dean releases him the moment they’re in the stairwell and the door sinks closed, and Gabriel whirls around, fixing him with a whisky-colored glare. “Where’s the fire, jackass?” he snaps, smoothing out his Hawaiian shirt with hibiscus flowers all over it that Dean would normally be laughing at.

                Dean holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “I just wanna talk,” he says as Gabe reaches down to scoop up a notebook he dropped on the way in here.

                He rolls his eyes as he straightens back up. “I’m gonna be late to my I-don’t-give-a-fuck class, so if you wouldn’t mind…” he replies as he makes for the door to the stairwell.

                “Wait, wait,” Dean says, stepping in his way, “Will you just…hear me out, please?”

                Gabe halts with a hard sigh, glaring up at Dean, looking surprisingly menacing given his height disadvantage to Dean. When he doesn’t say anything, Dean realizes Gabe’s waiting for him to speak, and he stutters over his words for a second. He didn’t really think this far ahead. What’s he supposed to say to the guy?

                When Gabriel rolls his eyes after a few moments of silence and goes for the door again, Dean just breaks.

                He spills everything.

                He’s not really sure why it matters to him whether Gabriel approves of his and Castiel’s relationship or not. Normally, Dean doesn’t really give a shit if someone dislikes him. But something makes him want to make amends with Gabe.

                So he spills his guts. He tells Gabriel that he knows he’s a fuck up, and that he’s done a lot of shit in the past, and that he doesn’t deserve a guy like Castiel. He tells Gabe that he knows they’ve had their differences, but he wants to make it right. He wants Gabriel to hear his apology the same way Castiel did, and accept it the same way Castiel has.

                By the time he’s done ranting about how sorry he is, and how much he wishes Gabe would forgive him no matter how much Dean doesn’t deserve it, Gabriel is left standing there blinking up at him with his eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling in surprise. Dean stands there staring at him after he’s stopped talking, breathing a little harder than normal because he barely took a breath while he was speaking.

                When he realizes that he basically just poured his heart out to this guy he barely knows, he flushes bright red and huffs a little breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with one hand, waiting for Gabe to speak.

                “Holy crap,” Gabe says after a few moments of silence, and Dean looks at him.

                “What?”

                Gabriel huffs a little laugh. “You’re in love with him,” he says, and it almost sounds accusatory.

                Dean’s forehead creases in defensive confusion. “What? No I’m not!”

                Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Yeah okay, whatever sport.”

                Dean sputters, trying to think of something else to say, but Gabe cuts him off with a raised hand. “Save it,” he says, “Why are you telling me all this?”

                Dean blinks at him, face hot with the blush he knows is obvious on his freckled cheeks. He hopes Gabriel won’t comment on it. “I just…I wanna know what it’s gonna take to prove to you that I’m not gonna hurt Cas anymore.”

                Gabe cocks his head to the side. “Why does it matter what I think?”

                Dean rolls his eyes. “Because you’re like Cas’s big brother. You’re protective of him, and I get that, I do, I just don’t wanna be on the ass end of your death glares anymore.”

                Gabe barks a laugh. “Would you look at that. Dean-O is afraid of me.”

                Dean glares at him. “I’m not _afraid_ of you, dickbag,” he replies, “I just think it’d be a whole lot nicer for everyone if you and I got along.”

                Gabriel purses his lips, looking up at Dean, studying his face. He’s silent for several long seconds, the sound of students milling by outside the stairwell door the only noise between them. Then, he sighs. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

                Dean nods, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Look,” he says, sighing, “I know you and me have been going to school together our whole lives, and I know you knew me before I met Cas. So I get where you’re coming from. I’m a dick, I know, always have been. But-“

                “No,” Gabe interrupts, “No, you’ve changed, I can see that.”

                Dean pauses his speech, biting the inside of his cheek.

                Gabriel lets out a hard sigh, glancing at the window on the door behind Dean and then back up at Dean’s face. “If you’re really serious, and you really wanna prove yourself, just do me one favor,” Gabe says.

                Dean raises his eyebrows as if to say _go on_.

                Gabriel looks hard at him for a moment. “Just… _be_ there for Castiel.”

                Dean blinks, waiting for him to say something more, and then cocks his head in confusion. “I am,” he replies.

                Gabe shakes his head. “No, _really_ be there,” he says, “Cas will never admit it, but he’s a bleeding heart. Do things for Cas you’d never do for anyone else. Hold his hand in public, tell him secrets, make him feel like he’s the only person in the world. Open yourself to him.”

                Dean swallows, trying to figure out what that means. He already does those things, doesn’t he?

                “That’s how you’ll earn my respect,” Gabriel continues, oblivious to Dean’s thoughts, “Treat Castiel well. Do _more_ for him.”

                Dean studies his face for a moment, chewing on his lip, and then he nods. “I’ll try,” he says, and then pauses and adds, “I’m not really sure what you mean but…I’ll try.”

                Gabe snorts. “You always were a little dense.”

                Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he snaps back, and Gabriel chuckles a little. Dean studies him carefully for another moment. “So…does this mean you accept my apology?”

                Gabe arches a brow at him, pausing for a moment, and then he shrugs. “Honestly, this whole hating you thing got old months ago,” he says, “So yeah, you’re forgiven.”

                Dean is still for a moment, and then he smiles. “Really?”

                Gabriel rolls his eyes. “You’re still a world class dick…but yeah.”

                Dean sags a little. He didn’t even realize how relieving it would be to hear those words, to have the forgiveness of someone who shouldn’t really mean all that much to him. Maybe it’s because it’ll make Cas happy, to see Dean and Gabe getting along. Maybe that’s why this means so much to Dean.

                The bell signaling the beginning of the next class period rings, and Gabriel straightens out his Hawaiian shirt the rest of the way, shifting his books more snuggly in his arms. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go get an education,” he says, stepping around Dean and pulling the door open.

                “Gabe?”

                He looks back.

                Dean swallows down his last little bit of pride. “Thanks,” he says.

                Gabriel salutes him with two fingers and slips out the door, leaving Dean there to stew in his thoughts. He really has no idea what Gabriel meant by all that, about making Cas feel like the only person in the world, treating him right, being better. Dean thought he was already doing that. But whatever, it feels good to finally be on the same page as Gabriel. Even if the guy’s kind of a dick, it’ll make Cas happy to know that they’re not secretly hating each other anymore.

                Dean wanders out of the stairwell and towards the back of the school, peering out the windows to make sure there’s no one at The Docks before heading out there to grab a quick smoke during his free hour.

                Later on at lunch, when Dean sits down with Castiel and Charlie and Dorothy and Gabriel, Dean and Gabe exchange a glance, and Dean gives his pudding cup to Gabe as a sort of peace offering. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling in surprise when Gabriel accepts the pudding without a snarky comment or a glare.

                Castiel doesn’t ask, but Dean feels a swell of happiness in his chest as he sees Cas smile to himself when he notices Dean and Gabe getting along better. It makes Dean feel like making an idiot of himself in that stairwell this morning actually was worth it, just to see Cas smile.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel meets Dean at Hautley’s Bend that night after going home to check on Anna and dropping her off at Missouri’s for the evening. Missouri seems to really love when Anna is there, almost like Anna is her own daughter. She’s such a wonderful woman, so full of life. Cas doesn’t ask, only because he doesn’t want to pry, but he wonders whether Missouri can’t bear children. She adopted Jesse, and she loves Anna, that much is clear. Maybe one day she’ll tell him. But for now, she’s overjoyed whenever Anna and Castiel come over. She says they bring life to her house, and keep Jesse occupied from stuffing rubber chickens in the shower drain.

                Castiel is sitting on one of the creaky old wooden swings at the park when Dean shows up, and it almost reminds Castiel of the first time he saw Dean, the day after Cas moved to Rail Pass, before they even knew each other or Castiel had even started his senior year. Dean is wearing his leather jacket again, which admittedly _does_ things to Castiel. The afternoon sunlight catches on his dark spiky hair and highlights all the sharp angles of his face as he pulls in a drag on his cigarette, looking up and smiling when he sees Castiel.

                Cas stands up, the swing clicking and creaking ominously as his weight leaves it, and he meets Dean halfway, leaning in and giving him a slow, dragging kiss on his minty-tasting lips. It’s only been a couple hours since they last saw each other after school ended, but it feels like forever. It’s too long to be away from Dean. That worries Castiel a bit, because he wonders how the hell he’s ever going to be able to live without Dean when Naomi and Bartholomew inevitably return to Rail Pass to move them away again.

                “Hey,” Dean greets, smiling against Cas’s lips, and Castiel sighs, resting their foreheads together for a moment, the sunlight glinting between them.

                “Missed you,” he says, threading his hand through Dean’s.

                Dean snorts. “Sap.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes as they start walking towards the street again. “Is your father home?” he asks, remembering how Dean mentioned he wanted to make sure his father wasn’t there before Castiel came over.

                Dean takes another drag on his cigarette as he shakes his head. “He’ll probably be out till two.”

                Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Two? That’s awfully late for a weekday.”

                Dean exhales a spout of smoke with a little chuckle. “It’s when The Roadhouse closes.”

                Castiel cocks his head. “The Roadhouse?”

                Dean takes one last drag on his smoke and drops the filter, scraping it out with the sole of his boot. “It’s a bar right outside of town near the truck stop.”

                Cas pauses and then hums in understanding, dropping the subject. Dean has never spoken this much about the topic of his father, but Castiel doesn’t want to push it. He keeps revisiting in his mind what Cara Roberts said about giving Dean time to open up on his own, and to just _be_ there when he decides to. That’s one of the reasons why Castiel hasn’t brought up what he saw on Dean’s arm the other night, apart from the fact that he’s too much of a coward to broach the subject anyway.

                “Sammy’s excited to finally hang out with you,” Dean chuckles, “He hasn’t shut up about it.”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh. “Really?

                Dean grins, squeezing his hand. “Of course,” he replies, “You’re special. And he’s only gotten to meet you a handful of times.”

                Castiel blushes a little and looks down at his feet with a little smile. He’s looking forward to getting to know Dean’s family a bit more too, even if he has no idea if he’ll ever meet Dean’s father. He keeps trying to remember what it looked like in Dean’s house, but the only time he’s ever been there is the day he woke up beaten bloody in Dean’s bathtub. He was too disoriented and panicked to really recall what Dean’s house looked like inside, or even how to get there. It’s why Dean is leading him there now.

                Castiel tries to focus on the good memories about that day, though there aren’t many. He does remember waking up to find Dean holding his hand in that bathtub though, and even if it all seemed so awful and wrong back then, it still felt so _right_ to have Dean holding his hand.

                And look at them now – walking down the street together, hand in hand, like it’s always been that way.

                Funny how things can change so quickly. They haven’t even known each other a full year.

                He lifts his eyes, looking over at Dean walking next to him, studying the profile of his face, the bruises and scrapes on his skin. He drops his gaze to Dean’s hand weaved with his between them, and absently realizes that it’s the same arm where Dean has all the cigarette burns. Castiel wants to lift it up and press his lips to that mutilated skin, take away all that pain, but he _can’t_. He just… _can’t_. Everything is so _good_ now, why would he go and ruin it by bringing up something so harmful?

                He shakes his head, chewing on the inside of his cheek and looking away. “Hey, what was happening with you and Gabriel at lunch today?” he asks, to distract himself from his reeling thoughts, “He was acting surprisingly civil towards you. It was odd.”

                Dean snorts, shrugging. “We found some common ground,” he replies, leaving it at that.

                Castiel studies his face for a moment, and then hums. “Well I’m glad you two worked out your differences.”

                Dean chuckles. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that we get along now, but I think things are gonna be less tense between us.”

                Cas smiles. “I’m glad,” he replies, and Dean looks over at him. His green eyes practically glow in the pre-dusk sunlight, and Castiel can’t help but lean in, giving him an awkward sideways kiss while they’re still walking. Dean laughs a little when he does it, but kisses him back enthusiastically until they’re forced to break apart when one of them trips over an uneven chunk of asphalt.

                It doesn’t take very long to walk to Dean’s house from Hautley’s Bend, and when they step inside, Castiel has brief flashback memories of the last time he was here. He remembers the hallway, and he knows that the last door on the left back there is the bathroom where he woke up in the tub of bloody water. He shudders a little, but grips Dean’s hand tighter and allows him to lead him to the kitchen, where Sam is sitting hunched over homework. He looks up when they enter and grins a goofy, dimpled smile, greeting Cas enthusiastically.

                Castiel doesn’t comment on the fading bruise on Sam’s jaw. Although it makes him angry, because deep down he thinks he’s figured out how it got there, what with the things he hears about their father.

                Dinner turns out to be just a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese thrown together with powder and milk on the stove. When Castiel looks for bowls to put it in, he finds none, and when he asks Dean where all the dishes are, Dean just kind of snorts and says their house is a bit lacking in the dish department.

                Instead, they all sit at the table and eat macaroni and cheese straight from the pan it was cooked in with forks. Halfway through the meal, Sam and Castiel start up a debate about whether Maximilien Robespierre did more good or bad during his influential involvement in the French Revolution. Dean quickly loses interest in the subject, rolling his eyes and calling them both nerds before standing to do the dishes while Sam and Cas continue to debate politics.

                Castiel glances over at Dean as he dries the macaroni pot, and Dean is looking at them with a strange twinkle in his eyes, like despite the fact that he doesn’t give a crap about politics, he’s happy to have Castiel and Sam together there in his kitchen. They lock eyes, and Dean smiles before turning away and putting the pan back in the cabinet.

                Castiel is impressed with how smart Sam is. Dean wasn’t lying when he said Sam is basically a walking encyclopedia. He keeps up with Castiel’s college-level knowledge of politics, religion, math, science, _everything_ , during their whole conversation, and while Dean pretends like he doesn’t know or care what they’re talking about, he occasionally interjects with his own opinions on the subjects they’re discussing, and Castiel looks at him fondly, because Dean doesn’t give his intelligence nearly enough credit.

                The Winchesters are geniuses, both of them, and by the end of the meal, Castiel is in awe of it. How did he ever get so lucky, to have the privilege of being part of their lives? A part of _Dean’s_ life?

                After dinner, Dean pulls Castiel away from a blooming conversation about the Lost Colony of Roanoke Island so that Sam can get back to his homework, and they head down the hall to Dean’s bedroom. It’s smaller than Castiel’s bedroom, and he smiles when he spots the origami Yoda mobile hanging from Dean’s ceiling that Dean bought from him that day at Bobby’s shop.

                Dean’s bed is just a twin sized mattress on the floor with dorky Batman sheets, and he only has a nightstand and dresser in the way of furniture. On the surface of the nightstand, the obsidian-handled knife Castiel gave Dean for his birthday is laying in its sheath. There are piles of boxes in the corner half-covered by clothes that Castiel doesn’t ask about, and another small door in the corner hanging open to reveal a mostly-empty closet beyond. Castiel sees only jeans and flannels hanging in there and he smiles fondly, walking over and touching the soft fabric.

                “Welcome to my humble abode,” Dean says, gesturing around widely as he closes the door, “Sorry it’s messy.”

                Castiel shakes his head, turning away from the closet. “It’s perfect,” he replies, looking up at the Yoda mobile and the Star Wars poster tacked to the ceiling above Dean’s mattress. There’s a small window over Dean’s nightstand out of which the sun is just beginning to set.

                Dean comes up behind him and wraps his hands around Castiel’s waist, leaning over his shoulder and kissing a line up his neck. “Sammy really likes you,” he says, almost like he’s proud.

                Castiel leans back into Dean’s broad chest, swallowing at the feeling of Dean’s lips on his skin. “He’s very smart,” he replies, “He gets it from you.”

                Dean snorts. “Yeah, whatever,” he scoffs, “Sam was born that way. He’s always been really smart like that.”

                Castiel sighs, turning around in Dean’s arms and capturing his lips in a deep kiss. He doesn’t like it when Dean talks badly about himself, even if it was passive that time. And kissing him is a definite way to shut him up on the subject. Dean hums against Castiel’s lips, smiling into the kiss and weaving his hands through Castiel’s hair.

                They stand there kissing for several long minutes, but Castiel makes sure not to let it get as heated as it did in the Dungeon bathroom yesterday. Sam is right down the hall, and they can’t start something in here when Castiel needs to go home at some point tonight.

                He winds his hands around Dean’s back and digs his fingers into the rolling muscles through his shirt, holding them together for a while as they kiss. Each slow drag of their lips is like a sigh of relief, and Castiel realizes that he craves this all day, every moment he’s not kissing Dean. He craves these soft, full lips that taste like smoke and rain clouds and tree bark, rich and earthy and beautiful. It’s an addiction, being with Dean like this. And it scares Castiel, yes, but not enough to quit.

                When they finally pull apart, both of them are a little breathless and Castiel’s bottom lip feels bruised where Dean nipped at it a couple times. He can still taste Dean on his tongue, and they just stand there holding each other for a moment, catching their breath.

                When Castiel opens his eyes, he spots a framed picture sitting on the dresser over Dean’s shoulder, and he squints at it. There’s a beautiful blonde woman in the photograph, her hair highlighted by the sun, eyes shining and round and warm. The picture looks old. It’s a bit faded and there’s dust on the frame. She also looks like Dean a bit. He has her nose, her lips, the shape of her eyes, her smile. Little things about her remind Castiel of Dean.

                “Is that your mother?” he asks, although he already knows the answer to that question. Dean looks back at the picture and nods.

                “Yeah,” he replies.

                Castiel slips out of Dean’s arms and walks over to the dresser, his fingertips lingering on the frame but not quite picking it up. He’s not sure if he’s allowed to pick it up. He knows Dean’s mother is dead, although he still doesn’t know how or when she died. Sometimes people don’t like to have priceless items like this handled by other people.

                So he just leans in close and studies the picture, smiling a little. “She’s beautiful,” Castiel says, and behind him he can hear Dean approaching, coming to stand beside him and looking down at the picture too.

                “Yeah,” he repeats, and Castiel can hear him swallow with a click. He straightens up and looks over at Dean, studying his suddenly closed-off expression.

                “You look a lot like her,” he comments, and Dean glances at him before huffing a little humorless laugh and looking down at the floor.

                “My dad says that sometimes,” he replies, “I guess I got the genes.”

                Castiel studies him for a moment before Dean looks back up and clears his throat. “I, uh...I could use a smoke,” he says, slipping his hand into Castiel’s, “Come on, I’ll take you to my spot.”

                Castiel cocks his head to the side in confusion, but doesn’t ask, just follows along as Dean pulls him out of his bedroom again and down the hallway to the back door of the small house. They pass a bedroom on the way with beer bottles and trash all over the floor. It doesn’t look like the kind of condition Sam would keep his own room in, so Castiel assumes it must be their father’s. He only gets a glimpse of it before Dean is pulling him through the back door and outside into the cool February evening.

                The sky is clear of storm clouds for once, and although it’s still cold out, it’s actually been a pretty nice day as far as East coast February’s go. Castiel thinks that this must be the calm before the storm, that this is the last nice day they’ll have in a while and it’s going to start snowing again sometime this week.

                He shivers in the bite of the evening and follows along as Dean pulls him around to the side of the house. There are a couple dented, rusty metal trashcans pushed up against the bricks of the house, and Dean climbs up onto one, hoisting himself up onto the low-hanging edge of the roof. He gestures for Cas to follow, and Castiel carefully climbs up, pulling himself onto the uneven wooden shingles of the roof and following Dean across it to the looming brick chimney on the other side.

                Castiel sits down with his back to the bricks while Dean fishes in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. When Dean sits down, he automatically leans back into Castiel’s chest, and Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s middle, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder and watching the horizon visible over the tops of the houses as dusk sets in.

                Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean light up his smoke, and Castiel turns his gaze onto the glowing tip of the cigarette. He wonders how hot it is, what it feels like when Dean puts them out on his bare skin. He wants to tear the cigarette out of Dean’s hands and throw it across the roof out of reach.

                He doesn’t know why he’s focusing all his frustration and anger on the cigarettes when they’re not technically to blame for what Dean’s done to his arm. Dean himself is not to blame either. Castiel isn’t sure why he does it, doesn’t know when he’ll ever know, but he has nowhere to focus his anger but at the cigarettes for now.

                He sighs heavily and holds Dean a bit tighter, tearing his eyes away from the smoke and looking back at the setting sun, at the purples and reds and oranges streaking the Vermont sky.

                Dean angles his head back a little. “You okay?” he asks, flicking ashes off the tip of his cigarette.

                Castiel nods, leaning down and kissing the sharp edge of Dean’s jaw before resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder again. “I’m alright,” he replies. Dean smiles when Cas kisses him and settles more comfortably back against his chest, looking at the sunset too.

                “So what makes this your spot?” Castiel asks after a few minutes of silence.

                Dean shrugs. “I don’t know,” he replies, “It’s just where I go when I want to get away from everyone for a while. It’s nice up here.”

                Castiel hums. “It is nice,” he agrees, squinting into the sunlight, “You can see the church steeple in town from here.”

                Dean nods, taking another drag. “On really clear days, if you stand on your toes, you can see that fire station right near Bobby’s shop too.”

                Castiel smiles, closing his eyes for a moment and burying his face in the side of Dean’s neck, inhaling the sweet smell of his skin below the collar of his shirt. It feels good to just hold Dean like this. It’s the only time Castiel knows Dean is safe, when he’s in his arms, when he’s close. And that feels nice, to know that Dean is here and safe. Protected.

                If Castiel could, he’d hold onto Dean like this forever.

                The sound of old fashioned music suddenly starts up, and Castiel opens his eyes, looking over at the neighboring house as an older woman opens the window below. Dean looks over too, and when the old lady spots them, she pauses for a moment and then waves.

                Dean raises his hand and waves back, his cigarette still pinched between his fingers, and the old lady smiles, disappearing back into the house. Castiel can hear the yapping of several different small dogs, and sees a few of them darting past the windows of the old lady’s house. The music filtering out through the open window is something that sounds like it’s from the forties or fifties, old and scratchy and lovely, and Castiel smiles.

                “Who is that?” he asks, and Dean shrugs as he sucks in another drag on his cigarette.

                “Dunno. I’ve never talked to her,” he replies.

                “It seemed like she knew you,” Castiel points out, “She seems sweet.”

                Dean hums a little, chewing on his filter. Castiel can smell the menthol. “She sees me sometimes,” he replies, “She’s a little weird, but harmless. She gave me zucchini bread once.”

                “Zucchini bread?” Castiel echoes, “Was it good?”

                Dean shrugs again. “It actually wasn’t bad,” he replies with a chuckle, “Sam and I call her the squash lady now. She has a whole garden of it in front of her house.”

                Castiel arches his neck, peering over off the edge of the roof towards the old woman’s front yard. There’s a small plot with browning vines in it surrounded by fairy statues. “There?” he asks.

                Dean nods. “Sometimes she just sort of stands at her windows and stares at me,” he says, “I think she’s lonely.”

                Castiel chuckles. “You should talk to her.”

                “Why?” Dean snorts.

                Cas shrugs. “I don’t know,” he replies, “You might find that you like her.”

                Dean pauses, pulling in another drag on his smoke. Both of them glance over when the squash lady passes by the window again, this time dancing with one of her little dogs to the old music further inside the house. They both laugh when they see that, and Dean shakes his head.

                “Maybe,” he replies, settling back against Cas’s chest more snuggly. Castiel rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder again, using his body as a source of heat while the sun continues to sink in the sky and the evening air grows colder.

                They sit there in relative silence for the rest of the time Castiel stays at Dean’s house, watching the sun dip below the horizon and the stars spring to life one by one above them. This is nice, Castiel thinks. It’s so peaceful, and quiet, and Dean is warm and heavy against him, fitting there like he belongs.

                They only go back inside an hour or so later when Sam comes out and lets them know he’s going to bed. They climb down from the roof again and head into the house, and Castiel waits in Sam’s doorway while Dean tucks his little brother in, ruffling his floppy hair and laughing when Sam swats at his hands and smoothes his hair back down.

                “Night Cas,” Sam calls, and Castiel nods at him.

                “Goodnight Sam,” he replies, stepping back as Dean exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

                “You sure you’re gonna be alright walking home alone?” Dean asks as he walks Castiel to the front door.

                Cas rolls his eyes. “Dean, you walk home alone from my house all the time. I think I’ll survive.”

                Dean snorts and opens the front door for him, and they stand in the doorway kissing for a few minutes before Cas is finally able to pull away and walk down the steps towards the street. Dean stands watching him until Castiel disappears around the corner with one last glance over his shoulder.

                He hugs himself in the chill of the night and heads down the street in the direction of his house, smiling the whole way. Maybe Dean will be alright. Maybe he _is_ alright. Castiel wants to believe that, he really does.

                But he knows it’s not true.

                He ignores the heavy feeling in his gut and tries to focus on the lingering taste of Dean on his lips as he picks up Anna from Missouri’s and then crawls into his own bed. It feels cold and empty without Dean there.


	26. A Taste Of Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, we've hit the 300K words mark! Damn, I never expected this fic to be this long, but there's still so much more to go! Hope you guys are ready for a lot of reading haha  
> Sorry for typos in this chapter, as always :)

                Just like everyone predicted, the nice February weather doesn’t last. By the time Dean gets to Castiel’s house on Friday night after dropping Sam off at the Singer’s, the snow is up around his ankles and his clothes are soaked through, as is the paper grocery bag Dean has cradled to his chest protectively. Castiel ushers him into the house quickly, ignoring the bag Dean is hiding in his jacket, and gives him dry sweatpants and a hoodie to change into before brewing him up some tea from Missouri’s recipe book.

                Then, Cas spends about twenty minutes laying kisses all over Dean’s pink cheeks and ears and the tip of his nose where the cold bite of the winter storm nipped at his exposed skin. By the time he’s done, Dean is grinning and clinging to Castiel, half-hard in the sweats and wishing desperately that he wasn’t so hungry, because then he’d be tearing Cas’s clothes off right here and now.

                The heater is broken again in Castiel’s house, so they bundle up and drink tea and try to keep warm as they cook up something called chicken piccata that Castiel makes from scratch without even needing to look at a recipe. Friday nights are sort of becoming their thing. They meet up at Cas’s house, cook dinner, watch movies, make out. It’s nice. Dean’s not exactly a stickler for traditions, but he could definitely get behind this one.

                Instead of sitting at the kitchen table to eat, they just climb up on top of the island counter, sitting facing each other with their plates of chicken piccata between them, flicking capers at each other and laughing around too-big bites of sauce-drenched chicken and noodles. Dean is once again wildly impressed with how good the meal is. He’s so used to eating things that came out of a box, he’s forgotten how good it is to eat a decent, home-cooked meal outside of a restaurant.

                Castiel is still acting weird – _has_ been since the night Dean tripped on shrooms and woke up in Castiel’s bed with no memory of how he got there – but it doesn’t ruin the good night. Dean figures Cas will tell him what’s going on when he’s ready to talk about it. However, that doesn’t stop Dean from asking Cas a half dozen times whether everything is okay, until Castiel finally has to lean in and kiss him in order to shut him up.

                And that’s good. That’s definitely good. Dean can get behind that.

                “Are you trying to seduce me, Castiel Novak?” Dean grins against his lips, both of them angled awkwardly over their half-finished dinners to lock lips on the kitchen counter.

                Castiel smiles and hums, nipping once at Dean’s plump lower lip and causing a shiver to roll down Dean’s spine. “Only if you want me to,” he replies, one of his hands sliding up and teasing along the shell of Dean’s ear.

                Dean rolls his shoulder and shivers again as Castiel’s gentle touch tickles him, and Cas full-on grins at that. Ever since he discovered that Dean is ticklish, it’s like one of his favorite pastimes now, much to Dean’s dismay. But he tries to brush it off, taking Castiel’s hand away from his ear and pulling it to his mouth. “Damn straight I want you to,” he replies, rolling his eyes, and then, to his own surprise as much as Castiel’s, he sucks one of Cas’s fingers into his mouth, laving his tongue over the digit and taking it in as deep as it will go.

                Castiel pulls in a sharp breath, his cheeks flushing red and his pupils visibly dilating as he watches his finger disappear in between Dean’s lips, much to Dean’s satisfaction. Dean himself is blushing too, but mostly because he’s embarrassed by what he’s doing. He’s _never_ deliberately acted like such a tease before, and he’s surprised at how fun it is with Cas looking at him the way he is.

                “Now who’s seducing who?” Cas chuckles, his voice a little strained. Dean mumbles something around the finger in his mouth and then huffs a small laugh when he can’t speak. Instead, he just tries to speak with his eyes, slowly pulling Castiel’s finger out of his mouth, letting his lips drag over the soft flesh, and then sucking another finger in so he has two of them pressing down on his tongue.

                Castiel stares transfixed at Dean’s mouth as he sucks on the fingers, licking between the digits and swirling his tongue around them, letting out a genuinely surprised little moan when Castiel pushes his fingers further into Dean’s mouth without warning, thrusting them down past the back of Dean’s tongue. Dean quickly relaxes his throat to keep from choking, just like he would do if there were a cock in his mouth, and he grins as he watches Castiel’s lips part on an exhale.

                That’s about all the warning he gets before Castiel yanks his fingers out of Dean’s mouth and all but _tackles_ him back against the counter, crushing their lips together. Dean laughs, the sound swallowed by Castiel’s lips as he ends up on his back with Cas settling halfway on top of him, their legs tangled and Castiel’s arms the only thing keeping him from crushing Dean fully under his weight.

                The sudden change in position causes one of their plates of dinner to go flying off the counter and shatter on the floor, the other coming dangerously close, teetering on the edge. Dean bursts out laughing as it happens ( _it’s like everywhere he goes, dishes get broken somehow_ ) but Castiel doesn’t even seem to notice, too busy grabbing a handful of Dean’s hair and yanking his head back, exposing the long line of Dean’s throat.

                Dean chokes on an exhale, his laughter cutting off in a low moan as Castiel’s lips latch onto the side of his neck, sucking and nipping on the vulnerable flesh. Dean feels a tingling thrill rush through him at the feeling of Cas manhandling him around, and he reaches up, clinging to Cas’s shoulder and side just for something to anchor himself.

                _So much for a quiet Friday night watching movies_ , he thinks, although he’s not disappointed. They haven’t been together since the hayloft. Dean is surprisingly starved for it, and from the way Castiel is already rolling his hips almost incidentally, he is too.

                Castiel only bites or sucks hard enough on Dean’s neck to leave a tiny mark that will probably fade in an hour or two. Dean’s hand slides up to the back of his head and he huffs a stuttered breath. “Harder,” he finds himself saying before he even realizes he’s speaking out loud. Cas exhales sharply against his neck, sending a flare of goose bumps down Dean’s arms, and obliges with another gentle nip to his skin. Dean groans in sudden frustration and grips a handful of Cas’s hair.

                “ _Harder_ Cas,” he urges, “You can leave marks.”

                The second he says that, Dean can feel the way Castiel’s body goes rigid with arousal. His cock, pressed to Dean’s thigh through their sweatpants, twitches and hardens, and his hand tightens painfully in Dean’s hair at the same time as his mouth clamps down on the side of Dean’s neck.

                Dean gasps and groans at the feeling of Castiel sucking bruises into his skin, biting harder and sending shocking waves of pleasure/pain through Dean’s body. No one has ever taken Dean and reduced him to a writhing, moaning mess this quickly before, but he sort of finds that he likes it. Usually he’s the one in charge, in control, working someone over, but with Cas, he can just…let go. Let Castiel lead, let himself be moved around and used in a way that somehow doesn’t feel like objectification at all.

                It’s not violating, it’s freeing, and despite the fact that sometimes Dean feels scared, still gets that itching, crawling, fingernail-scratch sensation at the back of his skull reminding him that the incident at Ghost Town is still a fresh, bleeding wound carved deep in his psyche, Dean wants nothing more than to _submit_ to the feeling of Castiel’s hands holding him down, yanking his hair, leaving loving bruises on his flesh.

                It’s about time Castiel gave Dean some bruises for a change anyway, right?

                He feels his legs falling open wider the harder Castiel sucks on his neck, until his skin is throbbing and aching and he can feel a bruise blooming there that he knows is going to last for at least a week. Castiel shifts over and settles snuggly between Dean’s spread legs, which has the effect of lining their rapidly-swelling erections up through their clothes. Both of them gasp at the sensation, and Dean twitches a little. His knee hits the remaining plate of chicken piccata hovering on the edge of the counter, sending it toppling to the floor, and both of them start laughing.

                Castiel pulls away from Dean’s neck for a moment and both of them lean to the side, peering down at the mess they’ve made, shards of ceramic and caper-filled sauce spilled out all across the floor.

                “Better clean that up,” Dean drawls, nodding his head towards the mess.

                “Mm, yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Castiel shoots back, and then proceeds to dip his head back down, laving at the bruise he created on Dean’s throat. Dean laughs, letting his head thump back against the counter and releasing a shuddering sigh that turns into a groan when Castiel rolls his hips a bit, just gently and _barely_ thrusting forward, little pulses that nudge their groins together through their clothes just enough to be a torturously teasing sensation.

                Dean gasps and tucks his face into the side of Cas’s neck, clinging to him as arousal coils low in his abdomen. Cas reaches up and grabs a handful of his hair again, yanking his head back one more time and startling another half-moan/half-chuckle from Dean’s throat. Cas’s other hand pulls aside the collar of Dean’s hoodie and he bites at Dean’s prominent collarbone, sliding his tongue into the dip at the base of Dean’s neck.

                Dean swallows, his throat rippling with the movement, and Castiel gentles his touch just a bit, kissing up the center of Dean’s neck and over his Adam’s apple, to the hinge of his jaw and finally across his cheek to his mouth. Both of them inhale slow and deep when they’re finally kissing again, Castiel’s tongue dipping inside Dean’s mouth as if retracing where his fingers were minutes ago.

                Somehow, Castiel still tastes like that crackle in the air right before an electrical storm, sweet and sharp and powerful, despite the fact that they just stuffed themselves full of lemon chicken and should, logically, taste like chicken. Dean sighs into Cas’s mouth, reveling in the flavor, letting himself drown in everything that is Castiel. His smell, his taste, his warmth holding Dean down against the counter, the concentrated heat between his legs pressed up against Dean’s own erection, which is crossing over from teasingly pleasurable into borderline painful.

                Cas’s hand loosens in Dean’s hair, leaving a numb tingling in his scalp as Castiel breaks off the kiss again. Dean’s neck arches off the counter, chasing the flavor of Cas’s mouth, but then drops back again when Castiel starts kissing his way down Dean’s chest over the hoodie. To Dean’s surprise, Castiel hasn’t made a move to take off Dean’s shirt yet. Usually by this point Dean would be fumbling for a light switch while Cas pushed his shirt off so that Castiel wouldn’t see Dean’s scars.

                A tiny bloom of panic penetrates through the fog of arousal, and Dean is partially distracted trying to think of ways they could move this somewhere where the bright kitchen lights aren’t highlighting every single thing about them while they do whatever they do. But, to his surprise, Castiel doesn’t try to remove his hoodie when he gets to the bottom of it.

                Dean lifts his head and looks down at the top of Castiel’s head as he pushes the hoodie up just enough to get to a strip of skin at the base of Dean’s stomach, kissing his hipbone reverently (on the opposite side of where his scars are, to Dean’s relief). The sweatpants Dean is wearing – the ones he always wears when he’s over here – are too big and have shifted down a bit with their movements, hanging low off his hips.

                Castiel ignores the very obvious tent of Dean’s erection through the material for a moment, instead gripping Dean’s thighs and sucking another dark, bordering-on-painful bruise onto the sharp cut of Dean’s hipbone. Dean shudders and gasps and claws at the countertop for something to hold onto, but doesn’t take his eyes off of Castiel, off of the way he can see the pink strip of Castiel’s tongue darting out to wet his skin, or the way his pale lips latch onto Dean’s hip like a fucking porn star.

                Dean has no idea how Castiel learned to take him apart so quickly. Cas was a _virgin_ before they met. This kid learns _fast_.

                Or maybe Dean is just that easy to read. He’s not sure.

                When Castiel hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Dean’s sweatpants and starts to pull them down, Dean lifts his ass off the countertop to help, and his embarrassingly hard cock springs free. He’s not wearing his boxers since they got soaked through on the walk over here from the snowstorm raging outside, and he’s actually thankful for that fact. It’s just one less layer between his dick and Castiel’s warm, wet mouth, which is pretty much where he thinks this is going.

                He actually full-on _cries out_ in pleasured surprise when Castiel’s lips wrap around the head of his dick before Dean’s pants are even all the way down his thighs, his head falling back against the counter again. _Wow_ , he wasn’t expecting that to happen so _fast_. He tries to buck up into the tight heat, but Castiel abandons trying to get Dean’s pants off all the way and instead holds him down by the hips, keeping Dean completely still while he simply swirls his tongue around the head of his cock, teasing the slit and creating an almost unbearable tightness as he sucks.

                Dean tries to say something, tries to crack a joke or make a smart-ass remark because he’s actually a little embarrassed by how much he’s completely at Cas’s mercy right now. All that comes out, though, is a strangled, incoherent jumble of syllables that fade off into a sobbing moan as Castiel finally starts to sink down, Dean’s cock sliding into his mouth one torturous millimeter at a time.

                Dean’s hands fly up to the back of Castiel’s head, and he’s lost all capability of intelligent thought as he presses down, urging for more, wanting this to last forever and yet praying for the almost unbearable pleasure to end all in the same moment. Cas chuckles around the girth of Dean’s not-inconsiderable length, and the vibration of it has Dean moaning out loud again, practically sobbing, his cheeks flushed with heat. He can feel the ripple of Castiel’s throat as he all but swallows Dean’s cock, can feel the way Castiel is struggling not to choke, because he’s still fairly new at this despite the practice they’ve gotten in.

                Cas reaches up and grabs both of Dean’ wrists in one hand, removing his hands from the back of his head and pinning them both to the side in an iron grip. Dean twists his wrists in Castiel’s grasp half-heartedly, but doesn’t otherwise try to get free, just allows Castiel to take over, forcing himself to keep his hips firmly planted on the counter. He knows this is a challenge for Cas, to have Dean’s dick this far down his throat and _not_ choke. He’s doing a remarkable job though, if that wasn’t obvious by the way Dean is moaning.

                Castiel bobs his head slowly a few times, teasing his tongue along the sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath the head of Dean’s cock on every pass up. Dean isn’t scared anymore. No, he’s just _lost_ , drowning in the sensation. His whole body is vibrating as he feels his climax bubbling over in his gut. He feels that burning, aching, _unbearable_ pleasure spiking, and he gasps out an almost inaudible “Wait!”, clenching his muscles to keep from coming right then and there.

                He can feel the way Castiel is smiling as he immediately pulls off, leaving Dean’s aching dick wet and heavy between them, the cold air of the house successfully staving off his orgasm as it hits the saliva-covered flesh. Dean exhales heavily, panting and twitching, his eyes squeezed shut tightly. He can feel his pulse in his erection, and it’s _torture_ , but he didn’t want this to be over that quickly.

                Castiel crawls back up his body and settles over Dean again, being careful to keep from brushing up against Dean’s over-sensitized cock too much. Dean opens his eyes as Castiel starts nipping gently at his neck again, tongue pressing to the delicate flutter of Dean’s carotid as his heart slams in his chest.

                “So responsive,” Castiel murmurs against his skin, almost like he’s in awe, and Dean blushes again, embarrassed. He’s never really been like this before. He’s never lost control like that, not before Castiel.

                “Maybe you shouldn’t be so damn good at sucking dick, then,” Dean grumbles back, and Castiel laughs against his throat, kissing it one more time and pushing up to hover over Dean, looking down at him with bright eyes that are full of so much affection Dean almost shies away.

                Instead, he just stares back, takes in the sight of that crystalline blue. It was the first thing about Castiel that Dean noticed, the first thing he grew to love (and there’s that word again: _love_. Dean has to stop thinking like that). He could see the bright, inhuman blue all the way across the playground at Hautley’s Bend the first time he ever saw Cas back in September. And now, there it is, inches away from his face, looking darker and deeper in the lights of the kitchen and the shadows of Castiel’s face.

                Dean stares up at him, and feels every bit of tension in his body draining away, like looking into the eyes of an angel. Like looking into salvation itself. It’s such a weird feeling, but suddenly Dean doesn’t even remember what day it is, or what problems he has to face when he leaves here, or that there was ever anything bad in the world to begin with. He feels like he’s flying, all from looking into those big blue eyes.

                He doesn’t even take a moment to reconsider when he says, “I want you to do it.”

                Cas’s forehead creases in confusion, and he cocks his head to the side. “Do what?”

                Dean swallows, gulping, racing the nerves he knows are going to flare up at any moment now. “Fuck me,” he says with a little hesitation, because it’s been a _long_ time since he bottomed for anyone, and he’s not sure what will happen to his fragile mind if he lets Cas do this now.

                Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Really?”

                Dean hesitates again, and it’s right about at that point where nervousness begins to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. He knew he couldn’t be whisked away in the land of the carefree forever. Even so, he forces himself to nod shakily, slumping back into the counter and swallowing hard.

                Castiel studies his face for a long moment, and what is _with_ them and not discussing these things before they’re already half-naked and all over each other? Castiel lost his virginity to Dean on a whim, and now Dean might very well bottom for the first time in a long time on an equally sudden impulse.

                But Dean has been doing a lot of thinking the past couple days, mostly about what Gabriel said in that stairwell. About _opening_ himself to Castiel, _being_ there for him. He’s not exactly sure this is what Gabriel meant, but Dean thinks this could be a start. Doing things for Castiel that he doesn’t do for just _anyone_.

                Cas studies him closely, concern in his eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks.

                Dean bites the inside of his cheek and nods. He doesn’t want to break apart right here in front of Cas, so he looks away before Cas has a chance to see Dean’s sudden nervousness in his eyes.

                “I, uh…I went to the grocery store after school today and picked up some stuff,” he says, sitting up and slipping out from under Castiel for a moment. He pulls up his sweatpants from where they’re down around his thighs and jumps off the counter for a moment, disappearing into the hallway and coming back with his paper grocery bag he brought along, which is all but falling apart from getting wet in the snow.

                Cas is sitting on his heels still on the countertop, and Dean carries the bag up to him, dumping the contents out. He picked up basically every flavor of lube he could find (except for the coconut one, because ew), and a few different types of condoms as well. Castiel chuckles a little as he picks up one of the small bottles of lube to examine the label. “You planned this,” he accuses.

                Dean blushes. “Well…not exactly _this_ , but…I don’t know. I figured since we left the lube in that hayloft, I should pick up some more. Didn’t know which kind you’d want, so I got them all.”

                Castiel’s lips quirk into a small, lopsided smile, and Dean has to keep himself from staring at them so he won’t lunge forward and kiss Castiel again. His dick is still heavy and aching between his legs, and he pulls off his sweatpants, letting them pool on the floor before climbing back up onto the counter, sitting there in just Cas’s hoodie and nothing else.

                Cas picks up and examines every bottle of lube, and both of them blush a little when he waves the strawberry one in the air. He looks up from all the bottles, a blueberry one in one hand, and a watermelon flavor in the other, studying Dean’s face carefully, looking a little torn. “Are you sure, Dean? We don’t have to do this if you aren’t ready.”

                Dean rolls his eyes, although he flushes a little because apparently he’s transparent enough for Castiel to see that he’s nervous. “I’ve actually done this before, unlike you,” Dean snorts, leaning forward and giving Cas a quick peck on the lips, “I thought you might wanna try the other way around.”

                Cas’s features soften a bit, and he drops one of the bottles of lube, placing his hand on the side of Dean’s face and sweeping his thumb up over Dean’s cheekbone. “It would be an honor, Dean,” he says, “If you’re sure, then I’d love to.”

                Dean grins, trying to breathe through his nerves, and willingly opens his mouth as Castiel kisses him again, dipping his tongue much more gently inside Dean’s mouth than before. He uses the force of the kiss to slowly tip Dean back, and Dean lays down on the counter again, spreading his legs to allow room for Cas to settle between them once more. Castiel kisses him deeply, rolling his hips periodically and ever-so-slowly bringing them both to that edge again.

                Dean shudders and clings to Castiel, feeling the hard line of Cas’s erection through his pants and dipping his hands into the waistband, grabbing handfuls of Cas’s bare ass, using the grip to pull him more firmly down against him. Castiel breaks off the kiss, both of them using the opportunity to gasp for breath.

                Cas’s hand is still clutched around one of the bottles of lube, and he holds it up, examining the label again before presenting it to Dean. “I guess we’re going with watermelon,” he says, and Dean snorts.

                “And for the condom?” he asks.

                Castiel hums and shifts off of him, slapping around at the pile of boxes and bottles and grabbing the first one he feels. He reads the label. “ _Ribbed for her pleasure_ ,” he states, pursing his lips. Dean barks a laugh.

                “I guess I’m _her_ , huh?”

                Castiel shrugs. “Well you do have nice eyelashes.”

                Dean raises an eyebrow with a scoff. “Oh, really? You’re not just _pretending_ to be gay, are you?”

                Castiel hums. “Oh I don’t know,” he replies, jerking his hips forward and driving his erection down roughly against Dean’s, causing Dean to choke out a cry, “Does it feel like I’m pretending to you?”

                Dean moans, chuckling a little breathlessly and rolling his eyes. “Just get on with it, you tease,” he growls, swallowing with an audible click. Castiel grins and tears open the box, pulling out a strip of condoms and breaking one of them off before tossing the rest aside. He uses his shin to nudge the other bottles and boxes off the counter and they all go clattering to the floor, freeing up the counter space for Dean and Cas to spread out a bit.

                Dean shivers as he hears the tell-tale _click_ of Castiel popping the watermelon lube bottle open. He glances down as Castiel gives the lube a smell test and makes a _yummy_ sound before holding it under Dean’s nose for him to smell it as well. It has that signature, artificial watermelon smell like gummy candy, and Dean hums too, grinning.

                “Good choice,” he says. Castiel bows his head a little.

                “Thank you,” he replies.

                Dean lets his head fall back against the counter and he waggles his eyebrows seductively up at Castiel. “So how do you want me?” he asks lecherously, wriggling a little underneath Castiel. Even as he says it, he can feel those nerves clawing up the back of his throat again, can feel that fingernail scratching away in his skull, reminding him that this could very well be the thing that breaks his mind again.

                Any little movement could cause him to be reminded of things he’d sell his soul to forget. He’s at that fragile state of healing where his mind could tip sideways right into irreparable trauma or miraculous recovery.

                He just really hopes Castiel doesn’t decide to fuck him face-down on this counter.

                Dean doesn’t want to think about the last time he was face-down and vulnerable like that.

                To his enormous relief and slight embarrassment, Castiel seems impressively attuned to every minute shift in Dean’s expression, every nerve that’s suddenly choking him, and he cards his fingers gently through Dean’s hair before placing a kiss on his lips. “Just like this will do,” he replies, and Dean melts back into the counter, closing his eyes for a moment to try and stave off the remaining nerves.

                At least he and Cas will be face to face. He trusts Cas enough not to hurt him, even though this is Cas’s first time topping for anyone, but Dean still doesn’t really trust _himself_ not to break apart.

                Castiel kisses him gently for a minute, much less rushed than it was before, and Dean tries to melt back into the mood, tries to forget about all his useless worries. He dips his fingers into the waistband of Cas’s sweats and starts to push them down. Castiel doesn’t even break off the kiss, just lifts his hips up and allows Dean to push his pants down as far as he can reach. They end up pooled just above Cas’s knees, but neither of them seem to care as Castiel settles once again on top of Dean and it’s just bare flesh on flesh.

                Castiel’s erection feels hot and heavy where it comes to rest against Dean’s, and they both can’t help but roll their hips together a few times, groaning at the feeling of having their cocks so intimately in contact.

                Both of them were already right on that edge when they started, so they don’t tease themselves for long. Cas leans up and squirts a good amount of the watermelon lube out onto three of his fingers. Dean watches him do it, and when there’s enough, Cas sets the bottle aside for now and dips his hand between Dean’s legs, locking eyes with him. Dean stares up at Cas, shaking minutely, clinging to his shoulders just for something to hang onto.

                He gasps sharply when Cas’s fingers brush over his entrance, the gel ice cold where it touches his over-heated skin. Cas coats Dean thoroughly just like Dean did for him, mostly copying Dean’s way of stretching him out like he learned in the hayloft.

                Castiel pauses with the tip of his pointer finger at Dean’s entrance and looks down at him. “Tell me if I do this wrong,” he says, “Or if I hurt you.”

                Dean shakes his head, his hips twitching a little. “You won’t hurt me. You’re doing fine,” he says breathlessly, swallowing again, his throat dry.

                Cas places his free hand on the side of Dean’s neck, thumb resting over Dean’s rapid pulse point, like Castiel wants to feel the jump in his heart rate the longer this goes on.

                When he pushes one finger inside, Dean gasps sharply, clenching up at first and squeezing his eyes shut at the rush of pleasure that washes through him.

                “No, open your eyes,” Cas whispers, his thumb pressing down like a warning on Dean’s neck until Dean forces himself to open his eyes again. As Castiel continues to push his finger forward, sliding it all the way inside, Dean can actually feel his heart start beating faster, and he gasps and groans, his embarrassment at the intimacy of maintaining eye contact through all this fading into the background of his sudden, overwhelming arousal.

                His dick twitches between them as Castiel buries his finger to the hilt inside, a blot of precome rolling off the tip and smearing on the hoodie Dean is still wearing. Cas is still wearing his sweatshirt too, and while Dean mourns the absence of all that smooth skin, he’s relieved that his own scars are covered up. Cas didn’t even try to get him to remove the hoodie. Dean wonders if it’s because it’s so freaking cold in this house, although both of them are sweating already.

                Cas leaves his finger there for a long moment, almost too long, and when Dean shifts his hips impatiently, he finally slides it out, pumping it a few times, the friction nearly unbearable. Dean groans and huffs a pent-up breath as the finger slips free, only to be joined by a second one, penetrating him and stretching him open. It doesn’t burn like it did when he was still a virgin, but Dean feels the stretch and a groan is all but forced out of him the deeper Cas’s fingers sink. His hole flutters around the digits and Dean realizes belatedly that the two fingers inside him were the same ones Dean was sucking into his mouth earlier.

                As Castiel pumps the fingers in and out, reaching as deep as possible and scissoring Dean open, Dean keeps his eyes locked on Cas’s . Although it’s more intimate than anything Dean has ever done, a fact that makes him a little uncomfortable, he’s finding that looking into those big blue eyes is helping to ground him here in the present. If he closed his eyes, his mind would no doubt wander to darker places, and he’d break apart. Keeping his eyes locked on Cas’s is like having his brain strapped to an anchor, keeping him here and locked in the now, locked in what’s happening to him _right now_ , and not what happened to him in the past.

                For that, Dean is grateful. Somehow, it’s like Cas just _knows_ exactly what Dean needs.

                Dean feels a swell of affection and gratitude and warmth, and he cranes his neck up, capturing Castiel’s lips in his own. The kiss drags a groan out of Castiel, one of the first of the night, and Dean feels a little coil of satisfaction at that. He’s been moaning like he’s on camera all night, it’s about time he got a reaction out of Cas.

                When Castiel finally pulls out his two fingers and goes to add a third, Dean reaches between them and says, “It’s okay, I’m ready. Do it.”

                Cas’s forehead creases in concern. “Are you sure? You’re not loose enough.”

                Dean shakes his head, pulling Cas down by the back of the neck and crushing their mouths together, another blot of precome beading from his dick as he bucks his hips upwards against Cas’s straining erection. He thrusts a few times, dragging their groins together and groaning, ready to just get this show on the road already.

                “I wanna be tight for you,” Dean whispers breathlessly when they finally pull away, and Castiel’s already-wide pupils dilate impossibly more, his cheeks flushing with heavier arousal. He nods shakily, and Dean takes pride in the fact that Castiel is having as hard a time as Dean is with keeping hold of his control in the face of such overwhelming arousal. But then, Cas has always been really good at control. He’s made that very clear.

                He pulls his fingers out from between Dean’s legs, smearing the remaining lube on his hand up and down Dean’s dick a few times, just to be a tease. Dean arches off the counter with a groan at the contact, but it’s not enough to make him come before Cas pulls his hand away, fumbling for the condom. He tears it open with his teeth, and Dean nearly comes just from the sight of that, and then makes a show of rolling it onto his dick. Dean can see all the little ridges on the rubber, _ribbed for her pleasure_ , and he would laugh if he wasn’t so goddamn horny right now.

                When Cas gets the condom on, Dean hands him the bottle of watermelon lube again. “Use a little more,” he instructs with a hard swallow. Really, all he wants to do is feel the burn of Cas spearing him open. Dean remembers what it felt like to lose his virginity to a guy, remembers that aching stretch. The guy he was with didn’t use enough lube, and it had hurt, but despite that, Dean almost wants to relive it now, with Cas. He wants it to burn a bit, because then it’s like he’s losing his virginity all over again, to _Cas_. The way it should be.

                He watches hungrily as Cas squirts another dollop of lube onto his fingers and coats his condom-wrapped dick with it, spreading it all around. Then, he shifts down and lines himself up with Dean’s clenching hole. Dean angles his hips upwards, wriggling forward a bit and gasping when he feels the head of Cas’s dick brush his entrance. His whole body is thrumming with the need to have Cas _inside_ him already.

                Cas leans down, pressing his lips to Dean’s for a moment. “Ready?” he asks, and Dean gulps and nods, recapturing Cas’s mouth in a deep kiss. Castiel smiles and huffs a small laugh at Dean’s obvious desperation.

                At the same time as he starts to press in, he plunges his tongue into Dean’s mouth, mirroring the way his cock is slowly breaching Dean’s entrance. Dean whimpers – actually fucking _whimpers_ – as the head of Cas’s cock pops inside him with a wet sound. Castiel isn’t _small_ , and even just the stretch of the head of his dick is already starting to burn, but Dean _loves_ it. He may very well be a bit of a masochist after all.

                Both of them groan in unison, swallowing each other’s exhales, as Cas presses in, sinking deeper, inch by inch. He’s so careful, so gentle and slow about it, that Dean almost wants to laugh and make fun of him. But it’s so _Cas_ , to make sure Dean isn’t getting hurt, or that Cas isn’t going too fast, that Dean doesn't say anything.

                It burns so deliciously, and it feels like it goes on forever, but when Castiel finally bottoms out, his balls coming to rest snuggly against Dean’s ass, it doesn’t even feel like it’s over. Dean is so comfortable, he almost thinks it should have hurt more. Leave it to Cas to surprise him like that.

                Castiel breaks off the kiss once he’s fully seated inside Dean, groaning lowly, a guttural sound that makes Dean shudder and causes another bead of precome to roll off the tip of his dick. Cas buries his head in the side of Dean’s neck, his lips coming to rest against the dark, aching bruise he left on Dean’s skin.

                “ _God_ , Dean, you’re so tight,” he groans, his hips jerking a little and forcing his cock deeper. Dean groans, feeling every inch of it moving inside him.

                “Told you,” he laughs, his voice strained as he pants. Castiel seems to be forcing himself to remain still, and he pushes himself up for a moment, looking down into Dean’s eyes, brushing his short hair back from his forehead.

                “Are you okay?” he asks, ever the concerned one. Dean rolls his eyes, reaching down and grabbing Cas’s ass, giving no warning before pulling him in, sinking Cas’s dick as deep as it will possibly go. Castiel cries out, falling down onto his elbow and burying his face in Dean’s neck again.

                “I told you Cas, I’ve done this before,” he all but groans, trying to hang on to that last little bit of control, “Now fuck me. I can take it.”

                Cas pants raggedly, lifting himself up again and studying Dean’s face with lust-blown eyes. Dean grips his ass hard, urging him on, and once Castiel realizes that Dean is serious, that he isn’t going to break, he exhales sharply and cards his fingers through Dean’s hair again.

                Dean lays there and stares up at him, breathing hard, waiting for Cas to move. Castiel grabs that same handful of Dean’s hair again and yanks his head back, startling another cry out of Dean even though he knew it was coming. Then, at the same time as Castiel bites down on the side of Dean’s neck again, he pulls his cock halfway out and slams it back in.

                Dean cries out again, his body jolting with the roughness of the thrust, dizzying pleasure drowning him in waves. Castiel doesn’t give him even a second to recover from the sudden change in pace. He just pulls out and snaps back in again, setting up a brutal rhythm. On each pass, Cas pulls out almost all the way, and then plunges back in to the hilt, and it’s almost too quick a pace for Dean’s jumbled mind to keep up.

                A long, keening moan is forced out of his throat, voice bouncing with the pace of the thrusts, and _god_ , why did he ever think that he would break apart from something like this? His mind can’t even function well enough to _allow_ him to break. All he can do is lay here and take it as Castiel continues to pound into him.

                Castiel recovers partway through, at least enough to have the mental capacity to slow his thrusts just a bit to drag this out, tease Dean more than he can handle. Dean can feel tears beading at the corners of his eyes, overwhelmed by the mix of sensations, the pain in his scalp, the ache of Cas’s mouth sucking bruises on his neck, the burning stretch of his cock pounding into him, the overwhelming pleasure caused by the friction his dick is getting between them.

                Cas lifts off of him for a moment, slowing the pace of his thrusts, and he reaches back with one hand, taking Dean’s hands off of his ass and pulling them forward. He wraps one hand around each of Dean’s wrists and pins them to the countertop, effectively holding him down, although Dean is grateful that Castiel’s hold is far above where Dean has his cigarette burns wrapped in an Ace bandage under the sleeve of the hoodie.

                He twists his wrists just a little, as if testing how hard Cas is gripping, but Cas only holds him tighter, leaning down within a centimeter of his face and locking eyes with him. Dean can do nothing else but stare back, eyes wide with shock at the sudden change in Castiel’s demeanor. He went from loving and tender to brutal and relentless in two seconds flat, and Dean _loves_ every second of it. He’s never been fucked like this before.

                His moans are swallowed by Cas’s mouth pressing to his again, and Castiel snaps his hips forward and back, changing the angle a bit. His cock bumps up against Dean’s prostate, and Dean’s entire body bucks upwards as he cries out in pleasure, his vision practically whiting out at the sensation. The way Cas smiles against his lips is indication that he knows exactly what he just did, and to Dean’s dismay, he does it again. And again. And again.

                He pounds straight down on Dean’s prostate, buried deep inside, the only sounds in the kitchen their ragged pants and skin slapping skin and Dean’s shameless moans and cries as he arches off the counter, his hands clenched into tight fists where they’re held down by Castiel. He can feel his climax building and building low in his abdomen, and he knows he’s close, knows it’s going to be over soon. As much as he wants to drag this out, he doesn’t think he can take any more.

                When Castiel releases one of Dean’s pinned wrists, their mouths locked together, he takes Dean’s cock in hand, stroking it a few times. The velvety flesh is already wet with lube and precome, and Dean arches again, his back aching from the hard surface of the counter, body jolting with every brutal thrust. It only takes about a dozen jerks from Castiel’s hand before Dean is crying out loudly, the sound muffled and ragged against Castiel’s lips as he spills his release between their writhing stomachs.

                He comes so hard it shoots all the way up to the base of his neck, his body twitching and jolting from overstimulation as he writhes. Castiel strokes him through the climax, jerking him hard and fast, and then he’s gripping Dean tight and picking up the pace as he nears his own release. Dean can only lay there and try to breathe through each slam of Castiel’s hips, their flesh slapping together obscenely loud in the quiet of the kitchen.

                As Castiel picks up the pace to finish, with Dean rolling his hips a bit in an attempt to participate in the pounding, Cas leans down and licks up a stripe of come that found its way onto the bare skin of Dean’s throat, the rest of his release already soaking into his hoodie. The taste of Dean’s come on his tongue seems to be all Castiel needs to push himself over that edge, and he gasps, burying his face in Dean’s neck again and gripping his wrist bone-crushingly tight while he shudders his release.

                Dean feels Cas's cock twitch inside him, feels the rhythmic pulse as Castiel comes into the condom. Dean has the fleeting thought that he wishes there were no condom, that Cas was coming directly inside him, filling him up with his warm release. It’s a dirty thought, but he knows the condoms are necessary. Maybe someday they’ll bareback, but better safe than sorry for now.

                Castiel collapses on top of Dean once he’s finished, both of them breathing hard, completely boneless on the counter. As Dean comes down from his climax, his numb body slowly returning to reality, he can feel a pleasant burn in his ass that he _knows_ is going to be sore tomorrow. And for like, a week afterwards. But that was _way_ worth it.

                He chuckles a little, breathlessly, staring up at the ceiling of the kitchen and trying to scrape back together the fragments of his dignity that he left behind the moment he started writhing like a cockslut on the counter. Although Castiel certainly didn’t seem to mind.

                Cas finally unburies his face from Dean’s neck, lifting up and looking down at him, both of them flushed and sweaty. Castiel kisses him, and it’s much less frantic than before, almost like an apology.

                “Are you alright?” he asks, releasing Dean’s pinned wrist and placing his hand on the side of Dean’s face, “I got a little carried away.”

                Dean snorts, grinning up at him as he pants. “That was awesome,” he laughs breathlessly, “I wanna make a new rule that we do that every day from now on.”

                Castiel snorts. “I don’t think your ass can take it.”

                “Oh, really!” Dean laughs, shoving Castiel off of him. They both groan as Castiel’s spent dick slips out of Dean’s loose and sloppy hole. “Someone’s getting cocky!”

                Castiel huffs a little laugh as he peels the condom off, knotting it and tossing it aside. “Well, I have something to be cocky about,” he states.

                “Oh yeah?” Dean chuckles, “What’s that?”

                Cas looks over at him, smiling and crawling back on top of him, bracketing his head in with his forearms. “You’re mine,” he says simply, pausing before leaning down and pressing their lips together. Dean blushes, although at this point he’s not really sure why he’s still getting embarrassed, and feels a swell of affection bloom in his chest. He kisses Castiel back slowly, gripping handfuls of his hoodie.

                When Cas pulls away, Dean tries to hide his bashfulness with a scoff. “So possessive,” he snorts, and Castiel just rolls his eyes and kisses him once more before sliding away and off the counter. He grabs a paper towel to clean himself off the rest of the way, and then pulls his sweatpants back on, shedding his hoodie because it’s so hot in here now. Dean sits up and winces when his ass protests the movement.

                He slides off the counter and has to hold onto the edge of it when his shaky legs try to take on his weight. Cas chuckles at him, and Dean flips him off with a snort, pulling his pants back on and picking up all the little bottles of lube and boxes of condoms from the floor, setting them on the counter for now.

                They wander upstairs to Cas’s room just to change their hoodies out for fresh tops, since both of their sweatshirts are soiled with Dean’s come and lube. For some reason, Cas keeps the light off while they’re changing, which Dean is thankful for, since he has to take his shirt off and his scars are exposed. They both decide to just wear t-shirts, since their skin is overheated from their activities. Dean gets one with the Lincoln Memorial on it, while Cas slips into a shirt that has the flags of all fifty states pressed on the front. Dean checks to make sure his Ace bandage is securely wrapped around his arm, and Castiel comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Dean’s middle, kissing the various bruises on Dean’s neck.

                As they head back downstairs to clean up the broken dishes and food everywhere, Dean grins. “So, scale of one to ten, how was your first time topping?”

                Castiel chuckles. “I liked it more than bottoming,” he admits, and Dean purses his lips, considering that for a moment and then shrugging.

                “Me too, actually,” he replies, “I haven’t bottomed that much, but you were the best so far.”

                Castiel laughs. “Liar.”

                “No, you were! I’m not kidding,” Dean assures him, tossing a handful of broken ceramic into the trash. He’s not lying, he really isn’t. He’s never been fucked like that before. His legs are still weak even now as he stoops to mop up sauce from the chicken piccata from the floor.

                Cas lets it go, although Dean can tell he still doesn’t believe him. When the kitchen is cleaned up, they cart the lube and condoms upstairs. Castiel opens his nightstand drawer so that they can put all the supplies in there for now. Dean spots a few pieces of torn up paper poking out from under a book in Cas’s drawer. He reaches down and pulls them out, studying them. Almost every torn strip of paper has Dean’s name on it.

                “Uh, Cas? What’s this?” he asks, holding up the torn papers as Castiel pulls back the blankets on the bed. He glances over.

                “Oh, that’s um…something Gabriel and Charlie came up with a long time ago,” Cas replies, coming up and taking the pieces of paper from Dean, laying them out flat on the bed and setting them together so that it resembles a whole sheet again.

                “About me?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow and stepping up beside Cas, reading over the list on the paper.

                Castiel shrugs, blushing a little. “It’s called Project Forgetting About Dean. Project FAD for short,” Cas explains, “I had a crush on you and we made this plan to try to make that crush go away.” He pauses, brushing over the paper fragments with his fingers. “Obviously it was unsuccessful. But I’m glad it didn’t work.”

                Dean arches a brow. “Wow, you guys really put a lot of thought into this.”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh. “Well, I was convinced it was unhealthy to be so infatuated with you. I didn’t know you back then, not really…so I did what I could to forget about you.”

                Dean smirks over at him. “Look how well that worked out,” he says, and Castiel chuckles.

                “Yes, well, I wouldn’t trade this for the world,” he replies, scooping up the Project FAD fragments and tossing them back in the nightstand drawer, shutting it and then pulling Dean down into the bed with him. The light is still on in the room and it’s only around nine at night, too early to go to sleep, so they just lay back and take turns seeing who can make the origami crane mobile above the bed spin the fastest with how hard they blow on it.

                Castiel wins, having had more practice in the art, and Dean compliments him on his “blowing”, which earns him a smack to the chest and causes a tickle war (which Castiel also wins). They make out for a while, which is also pretty new to Dean, making out _after_ having sex. Kissing was always a means to an end, really, when it came to other people. It’s not that Dean doesn’t _like_ kissing, but kissing always lead to better stuff with other people. With Cas, however, Dean could spend _years_ kissing him and never get tired of it. Never get tired of that exotic taste, or the way Castiel dips his tongue inside Dean’s mouth possessively, breaking out of his shell more and more with every passing day, becoming bolder, rougher.

                Eventually, they have to get up and go brush their teeth for bed. Dean has his own toothbrush here now, right next to Cas’s (he has the green one, Cas has the blue one) and they stand next to each other making faces in the mirror to see who laughs first and spits their toothpaste all over the counter and sink. Castiel, of _course_ , wins, being the stiff-faced guy he is, and Dean ends up having to mop up toothpaste he spit everywhere when he burst out laughing at Cas’s cross-eyes. For some reason, it’s funny seeing Cas make faces, when Castiel acts so serious all the time.

                When they crawl back into bed, the light is still on, and they stay up talking for a long time, like they always do, talking about everything and nothing. The conversation trails off hours later, and when Dean looks over, Castiel is asleep, on his side facing Dean with his lips in a slight pout that makes Dean want to kiss him all over again if only it wouldn’t wake the guy.

                Dean just stares at him for a while, thinking. Mostly, he thinks about what Gabe said in the stairwell. Dean knows that he technically doesn’t have to do anything Gabriel says but, strangely enough…he _wants_ to. He wants to do everything for Cas, anything. It sort of scares him how much he’s willing to do for Castiel. He wants to be better for him.

                _Tell him secrets_. That’s what Gabe said in the stairwell. Well, one of the things he said, anyway.

                That’s been sticking with Dean for the past couple days, telling Cas secrets. Dean doesn’t tell _anyone_ secrets, ever. Except maybe Sam, although that’s rare. But Gabriel had said that Dean needs to do things for Cas that he doesn’t do for anyone else. Telling secrets would be a way to start, besides trusting Cas enough to bottom for him.

                Dean just doesn’t know how ready he is to tell his secrets, is the thing. His secrets are _bad_ , _awful_ , _nauseating_. They’re the kind of secrets that people stop liking you for.

                But is Dean really worried about Cas leaving him? It’s always a possibility, but after tonight, Dean doesn’t think Castiel would just up and leave him over a little secret.

                With a sigh, Dean pushes himself up from the bed, wandering over to the light switch and flicking it off, shrouding the room in darkness, save for the glow of the falling snow outside reflecting the streetlamp. As he makes his back way over to the bed, he pauses.

                His shirt.

                He can take his shirt off.

                He’ll leave the Ace bandage on of course, because frankly, he’s not sure he’ll _ever_ be ready to show anyone his cigarette burns. But…would it be so bad to show Cas his scars? Dean doesn’t even have to strip down while Cas is awake. He can just take his shirt off and…go to sleep. Castiel will see his scars in the morning, and it’ll almost be circumstantial.

                Not many people have seen his scars, but Castiel seems like the kind of person who would think they were cool, rather than ugly. He seems like the kind of person who wouldn’t up and leave Dean because he’s flawed, because he has a fucked up body underneath his clothes.

                Dean stands next to the bed deliberating for nearly ten minutes, and when he finally decides to trust Cas and just fucking _do it_ already, his hands shake as he pulls his shirt off, like lowering a shield in battle and exposing himself to the hungry barrels of a thousand guns. He feels _naked_ , even though Castiel is asleep right now.

                But Dean has to do this. At some point, he has to do this. He’s sort of taking the advice he’s been giving Sam these past few weeks, about how The Accident _wasn’t his fault_. Was _nobody’s_ fault. It’s not Dean’s fault that he’s got these scars. Maybe Castiel will understand that. And if not…

                Fuck, Dean’s not going to think about how eviscerated he’ll feel if Castiel thinks his scars are ugly, if Castiel just tells him to get his things and leave when he sees the scars tomorrow morning. Dean can’t think about that.

                With a shaky breath, he lowers himself carefully into the bed, moving slow because he doesn’t want Cas to wake up, wants to put off Castiel seeing the scars for as long as possible. He rolls onto his side so he’s facing away from Castiel, and tucks himself back into Cas’s chest. Castiel groans in his sleep and subconsciously winds his arms around Dean’s middle, pulling him back tighter and burying his face against the back of Dean’s neck.

                Despite Dean’s suddenly racing heart and overwhelming nerves, he relaxes a little with Cas tucked so snuggly up behind him. Dean leaves the blankets off since they’re both still too hot to be covered up despite the chill of the house, and then he forces himself to close his eyes.

                It takes him hours to fall asleep, and when he finally does, all he dreams about is rejection and scorn, putting his trust in someone and having that trust ripped out from under his feet. He’s a monster, inside and out, and someday, someone is going to see that. In his head, he hopes to god Castiel isn’t that person.

 

*       *       *

 

                The rising sun is shining silver-gold through the branches of the pine tree out his window when Castiel wakes up the next morning with no recollection of falling asleep. He’s _warm_ , so warm, and when he blinks his eyes open, he realizes it's because Dean is spooned up against him, his body heat filling up all that space even though Castiel knows it must be freezing in his house with the snowstorm outside.

                He squints in the bright light, and when he looks up, he can see snow caked onto the branches of the tree outside, piled high, and he knows it must have snowed at least a foot or two. But it’s not snowing anymore, as evidence by the white-blue sky he can see in the morning sunlight. It’s Saturday. No school.

                He sighs happily and pulls Dean tighter against his chest, holding him close. This is a _very_ good way to wake up. Knowing he doesn’t have anything to do today, and waking up with Dean in his arms, snoring softly, warm and safe. This is how it always should be. Cas doesn’t know how he ever slept before he had Dean.

                He lays there for a while with his eyes closed, listening to Dean breathe as he sleeps beside him still. It’s only when Castiel lifts his head just slightly to squint at the clock on the nightstand – it’s a little after eight – that he realizes Dean isn’t wearing a shirt. It almost doesn’t register at first, but just as Cas is laying his head back down to go back to sleep for a little while, the sun illuminates a shiny patch of skin on Dean’s back, and Cas’s eyes snap open wider.

                Holy shit, Dean isn’t wearing a shirt!

                They’re in bed together and Dean is completely exposed. Castiel pulls away just slightly, looking down at Dean’s bare back in disbelief, thinking maybe the shirt just got rucked up or something by accident while they were sleeping. But no, the shirt is discarded on the floor next to the bed, and Dean is only wearing sweatpants, his entire torso bare, save for the Ace bandage Cas can see wound around his arm, although Castiel tries not to think about what’s under that right now.

                Dean wasn’t drunk or high last night, and yet he willingly took his shirt off sometime probably after Cas went to sleep. Did he just forget, get too comfortable, or was this on purpose? Cas likes to think that maybe Dean finally trusts him enough to let him see the scars that Castiel has already secretly seen, but this could all be a simple mistake.

                Nevertheless, Castiel can’t help but look at the scars again. This time, he has a full view of the portions that wrap around to Dean’s muscular back. In the sunlight, the scarring shines in some places with an almost metallic luster, where the scars are smoother. Castiel peels himself carefully away from Dean so that he can get a better look, and trails his fingers gently over the scars.

                It really is the most beautiful thing Castiel thinks he’s ever seen.

                He isn’t an expert, but they look like burn scars, like maybe Dean was caught in a fire at some point in his life. How _painful_ that must have been; Castiel can’t even imagine. He’s awestruck by how gorgeous and enthralling the scars are, but at the same time, he feels sad for Dean, because this must have _hurt_ like nothing Cas can even comprehend.

                He has no idea how long he lays there, just trailing his fingers gently over the scars, the bumps and curves and edges of the marred tissue like Braille against his fingertips. If he were blind, he imagines that he would be reading the story of Dean’s life with his fingers on Dean’s skin now, like an open book melted onto his side. He tries to imagine all the horrific possibilities of how these scars got here, but can’t come up with anything to do the beauty of them justice.

                It must be over an hour later, when the sun is adorning the top of the pine tree out Cas’s window and shining down directly onto both of them in the bed like a spotlight, that Dean stirs.

                Castiel knows the exact moment that Dean wakes up, because Dean’s loose and relaxed body suddenly goes rigid, stiffening under the gentle press of Castiel’s fingers. Cas halts the movement of his hand, because he’s still not sure whether Dean purposely exposed himself like this. When Dean says nothing and doesn’t move an inch, Castiel slides forward, wrapping his arm tightly around Dean’s chest and burying his face in the side of Dean’s neck, gently kissing the dark bruise and bite mark he left of Dean’s throat last night.

                He hears Dean’s shuddery exhale, and Castiel knows Dean felt his touch, knows that Dean knows Castiel has seen the scars now. Cas keeps waiting for Dean to say something because, regardless of whether or not Dean purposely left his shirt off for Castiel to see the marred flesh, the deed is done, and Cas has seen it.

                But Dean doesn’t say anything, and after a few minutes of just holding him tightly, like he’s afraid Dean is going to spring out of the bed and go running for the door, Castiel pulls away just enough to look at the scars again, placing his hand flat over them and sliding his palm from Dean’s ribs, down to the waistband of his pants, feeling the smooth bumps ripple under his hand. Dean shudders a little, and Castiel hears his breath hitch, but he still doesn’t move or say anything.

                So Castiel speaks instead.

                “I’ve heard stories,” he says, thinking back on things he heard from Charlie and other people in theatre last semester before he even knew Dean. He glides his fingertips gently back up Dean’s side, tracing patterns upon patterns into the scars gently, reverently. “People say you’re some kind of superhero that saved a bunch of people from a fire.”

                Dean remains silent, but Castiel hears him swallow, and he huffs a small breath that _almost_ sounds like a chuckle, but could have just been an exhale.

                Cas shrugs as he strokes the scars, still in awe at how beautiful they are, especially now that they’re illuminated by the rising sun. “I never knew what was true or not but…people talk,” he continues, and then sort of trails off because he doesn’t know what else to say.

                They lay there in silence for a few minutes, and Castiel watches in fascination as the bars of Dean’s ribs push outwards from underneath the scars as he breathes, his breath picking up just a notch as Castiel continues to touch the scars.

                When he lays his hand flat against Dean’s side again, just to smooth his palm over the distorted tissue once more, Dean’s hand suddenly comes up and covers Castiel’s over the scars. Cas freezes, doesn’t move, and Dean grips his hand for a moment like he’s trying to decide whether to push Cas’s hand away, or keep it there where he’s touching the exposed scar tissue.

                When Castiel leans forward a bit and kisses the base of Dean’s neck again, that seems to be the thing that makes Dean relax just a bit. He’s still rigid where he’s laying facing away from Cas, and Castiel almost wishes he could see Dean’s face, but he doesn’t push him. He thinks he might know how hard this is for Dean right now. A guy like Dean doesn’t let himself be this exposed in front of anyone. Castiel considers it a great honor that Dean is letting himself be this vulnerable in front of him.

                Dean lets his own hand slide away from Castiel’s, leaving Cas’s palm on his scars, and Cas takes that as permission to continue to touch. He traces one particular spiral of marred flesh that sort of looks like a galaxy, and just listens to Dean breathe.

                Dean keeps inhaling like he’s about to say something, but then stops himself and falls silent again. Castiel thinks maybe Dean is trying to work up the courage to say something, so he just gives him all the time he needs to get it out, whatever he’s going to say.

                It takes Dean almost five minutes before he finally utters a sound, and his voice cracks a little on the first attempt.

                Then, he says, “My mom was driving me and Sammy home.” He doesn’t say anything else for a minute, but Castiel senses that this story isn’t over.

                After a pause, Dean lets out a long sigh, like he’s trying to expel his nerves. Castiel can feel him shaking a little, but politely ignores it, flattening his hand again on Dean’s scars and just stroking his skin with his thumb.

                “We crashed,” Dean finally says, his voice a little tight, “There was a fire, and my mom…”

                He trails off, and doesn’t elaborate any further on the fate of his mother, although Castiel can pretty much guess what happened to her.

                Dean clears his throat a little. “Sammy was less than a year old, and he was stuck in his car seat. I was pinned, so…I broke my ankle to get my leg free and pulled him out of there.”

                He pauses, shifting a little, and from this angle, Castiel can see the bulge in Dean’s cheek as he clenches his jaw, gritting his teeth.

                “But I was already on fire, and my mom…” he licks his lips and then swallows with a click, “Anyway…that’s it.”

                Castiel realizes he’s holding his breath, and exhales slowly when Dean finishes abruptly. He doesn’t push him to say anything further, just laying there for a moment touching the scars. He was right about them being burns. They must have been extremely serious burns to create scars like this. And now Castiel knows.

                He doesn’t move for a few minutes, just listening to Dean breathe, trying to smooth away the trembling in his muscles. Cas is sure there are a lot more details to that story than Dean is offering, but he’s just thankful Dean told him anything at all, given that Dean is such a secretive person.

                He wonders if that traumatic car accident is the reason why Dean puts cigarettes out on his arm. Cas doesn’t ask or say anything about it, but he wonders. Dean might tell him one day. For now, Castiel just accepts things as they come.

                When neither of them say anything for a few minutes, Castiel slides down Dean’s back, laying kisses on his prominent shoulder blades and along the curve of his spine. He lets his lips trail up and over the scars, and he feels Dean stiffen and pull in a small breath of surprise as Castiel lays one loving kiss after another across the scars. He wants to cover every inch of the marred flesh with love and tenderness, because it’s pretty evident that Dean thinks they’re _ugly_. And that couldn’t be further from the truth.

                As Castiel’s lips trail down to the waistband of Dean’s sweatpants, under which the scars disappear, Dean suddenly rolls onto his back, finally looking at Castiel. Cas kisses his way up Dean’s chest, trailing the tip of his tongue along the edge of the scars before sliding his way completely up Dean’s body, hovering over his face for a moment. Dean’s eyes are a little watery, and there’s too much caution there for Castiel’s liking.

                He leans down and presses their mouths together, capturing Dean’s lips in a gentle kiss, drinking away all that fear and nervousness until Dean’s body relaxes beneath him. He’s still shaking, but he lets himself melt back into the bed, kissing Castiel back, their tongues tangling together slow and languid.

                Cas is hungry to touch Dean, _really_ touch him, for the first time. He lets his hands glide all over Dean’s torso. Not just on the scars, but also across his unmarred flesh, across freckles and hard muscles and bumpy ribs, over the small amount of hair Dean has below his navel and in the middle of his chest, and around his dusky pink nipples, causing Dean to squirm a little.

                When he finally breaks away from the kiss, they’re both panting and breathless, and Castiel gives Dean a soft smile, trying to convey all the affection he feels for this green eyed boy in one single look.

                “They’re beautiful,” Cas says, trailing his fingers across the scars again. Now that he’s allowed to touch, to look, it’s all he wants to do. He wants to paint pictures and write poetry about the scars. He wishes he were talented enough to find some outlet through which he could convey just how _gorgeous_ he thinks these scars are. Perfection doesn’t exist, he thinks, and if it does, it’s ugly. Imperfections are Castiel’s favorite thing about other people, and to find them on Dean is doing all sorts of things to Castiel’s heart.

                Dean huffs a little breath, but he says nothing in reply, although Castiel can see the disbelief in Dean’s eyes.

                For now, that’s okay though. Castiel has all the time in the world to convince Dean just how much he means the things he’s saying right now. Dean doesn’t have to believe him right this second. Castiel will have to _show_ him, with the touch of lips and fingers, and presence of heart. Dean needs to _see_ it for himself, just how fantastically imperfect he is.

                Cas leans down and kisses him again, leaving one hand splayed across Dean’s scars but letting his other hand slide up and card through Dean’s soft, messy hair, sticking up at a bunch of odd angles from his sleep. Dean slips his hands gently under Castiel’s shirt, pulling it up. Castiel breaks away from the kiss and allows Dean to remove his shirt completely, dropping it to the side on the floor. Maybe Dean feels weird being the only one without a shirt on, but Castiel can get behind this anyway. He loves the feeling of Dean’s warm flesh pressed bare to his, and even though they aren’t starting something here, just laying around trading lazy kisses on a Saturday morning is Castiel’s dream come true.

                When they finally break apart again, Castiel hovers over Dean, and Dean looks between them, trailing his fingers down Castiel’s bare chest and landing on the jagged scar Castiel has adorning the edge of his stomach. Cas glances down as Dean traces it with his blunt fingertips, before looking back up at Castiel.

                “Last time I asked about this, you said it was a story for another day,” Dean says, his voice a little quiet, just a murmur as he touches the scar, a tiny little thing in comparison to Dean’s smattering of scars.

                Castiel raises an eyebrow and looks back at Dean, smiling a little. To his overwhelming relief, Dean smiles back, just a small one, his eyes still a little watery, although he’s stopped shaking for the most part.

                “Well here it is,” Dean coaxes, “Another day. How’d you get this?”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, glancing down at Dean’s fingers tracing his scar. It tickles a little, but Castiel ignores it, because it feels nice to have Dean’s hands on him. He thinks maybe Dean is trying to get the spotlight off of himself and his own scar story by turning the attention back onto Castiel, but Cas will allow that. Dean told him a big secret this morning, it’s only fair that Castiel shares one of his own stories, if only to make Dean feel better about opening up a little. Give what you receive, right?

                “Remember Little Rock?” Cas asks, nodding in the direction of his desk where his book of houses is tucked away in one of the drawers, “That house I lived in where I had the tree house in the yard?”

                Dean purses his lips for a moment and then nods, studying Castiel’s face.

                “Remember how I said I had a bully there, and I used to hide from him in that tree house whenever he would walk past on the way home from school?”

                Dean’s forehead creases, and Castiel can tell he knows where this is going. He watches Dean’s throat ripple as he swallows and then nods once more.

                Cas glances down at his scar, running his own fingertips across it. “Well, one day, I wasn’t fast enough, and he saw me before I could hide,” he explains, the memory still fresh despite the fact that it happened several years ago, “He had it in his mind that I owed him money or something, and when I didn’t pay up, he stabbed me with a pocket knife.”

                Dean’s eyes widen almost comically when Castiel says that, his lips parting is disbelief. He blinks for a moment, and then his expression crumples in what looks like a mix of guilt and distress. “Oh Cas…” he breathes, “I’m so sorry.”

                Castiel shrugs a little and shakes his head, glancing down at his scar again, remembering the feeling of the blade sinking into his flesh, white-hot and stinging like poison. It’s not a feeling someone forgets easily.

                “It’s okay,” he says, waving it off, “I spent some time in the hospital, and the boy who stabbed me was charged with assault. And then my family and I moved away from Arkansas shortly thereafter.”

                Dean lays there for a moment, several different emotions flitting across his face. Guilt, shame, pity, horror, sadness, dismay. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know what to say, and Castiel sort of chuckles.

                “We’re an extremely messed up pair, aren’t we?” he says, and Dean laughs a small, watery laugh, winding his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him down on top of him. Cas buries his face in Dean’s shoulder and hugs him back for a while, and when they finally break apart, it’s only because Dean’s stomach growls loudly, causing them both to laugh.

                They lay there for a little while just talking after that, like they always do. Nothing has really changed, other than the fact that Castiel thinks maybe Dean trusts him more now. He’s had a taste of trusting Castiel, and now he’s more comfortable with it. And that makes Cas beyond happy.

                The story of the bully in Little Rock isn’t exactly a big secret. Most of the people in Castiel’s life know about it, even Gabe, Charlie, Kevin, and Dorothy, thanks to a night of heavy drinking that resulted in a game of Truth Or Truth. But still, it feels good to tell Dean. Castiel wants Dean to know everything about him, and in turn, he wants to know everything about Dean. He’s addicted to learning things about this boy. He’s addicted to everything about him.

                When Dean tells Castiel a little bit about Sam’s recent breakdown involving the car crash that killed their mother, and how Sam is blaming himself for everything that went wrong, Castiel suggests that Dean take Sam to see Cara Roberts. Maybe she can help him, and maybe, just maybe, Dean might decide to talk to her too, about his arm. Castiel can only hope.

                When Castiel’s stomach starts growling too, they get up and get dressed in day clothes before heading over to Missouri’s for breakfast. Missouri eyes the hickies on Dean’s neck and raises her eyebrows. Dean blushes and looks away, pulling the collar of his jacket up higher around his neck as they all sit down to eat homemade muffins and made-from-scratch hot cocoa that makes the whole house smell like heaven.

                Castiel looks at Dean as they all eat and Anna and Jesse chatter about some new episode of Criss Angel they saw on the TV last night where the magician levitated over a golf course. Dean’s cheeks are flushed from the cold walk over here, but his eyes are shining, almost like he’s happy. When Missouri catches the way Cas is looking at Dean, she smiles warmly over the brim of her mug, and Castiel can just tell Missouri knows something he doesn’t, is reading Castiel’s expression like an open book.

                She ushers Anna and Jesse out into the living room, leaving Dean and Cas alone in the kitchen to finish their breakfast. Dean looks over at Cas and grins around a mouthful of chocolate chip muffin, and Castiel laughs, leaning in and pulling down the collar of Dean’s jacket again, just to lay a kiss right on the darkest bruise on Dean’s neck.

                “Mine,” he murmurs against Dean’s skin, and Dean flushes bright red, swallowing his muffin with a gulp.

                He looks over at Castiel as Cas straightens back up, and there is a response right on the edge of his lips. But, instead of saying anything, Dean just reaches out and wraps his hand around Castiel’s, holding it tight.

                And for now, that’s enough. For now, that simply gesture says more than Dean could put into words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out some fanart made for this fic in the link :) I got super excited when I saw this, it's like my dream to have art made for my writing <3 Thank you awesome person! -->
> 
> [Art](http://thesedrawingsaremine.tumblr.com/post/118646677396/fanart-for-coldinthestudios-beautiful)


	27. The Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for typos, yet again haha it's late and I'm super tired, but I figured I'd just get this chapter up tonight and try to edit it as best I can while half-asleep. We'll see how it goes haha :)

                _The dream begins as it always does. It’s dark, and cold, and Castiel is so lonely he can feel it like ice in his bone marrow. He’s not himself, but it doesn’t seem to matter. That loneliness is getting to him anyway. He can feel it like it’s his own._

_Nameless, faceless people surround him, some crying, others just…watching, as the casket is lowered into the ground. He knows the person inside that casket, knows that he plays his own part in this. He contributed to his own loneliness, and how does it feel? Is he happy now?_

_In the trees above him, there are women hanging, all the same, the branches creaking under their weight as they sway in the cold breeze. The groaning of the branches matches the click as the casket is lowered down, down, down into the frozen earth._

_And that’s it. That’s the dream. When Castiel jolts awake sometime in the middle of the night, he lays there and stares at his ceiling, still feeling that loneliness in every nerve ending. And he wants Dean there with him. He wants him there so bad. Because how is Castiel supposed to stop feeling this lonely when he doesn’t have anybody here to hold him and tell him he's not alone, that he's never going to be alone?_

*       *       *

 

                When school lets out on Monday afternoon, Dean kisses Castiel goodbye outside near The Docks (pointedly ignoring the homophobic slurs Gordon and Zach are throwing their way, and the catcalls Crowley is sounding out just to annoy Dean) and then takes another route alone through the forest to the K-8 school closer to the heart of town where Sam is just getting out of his last class.

                He’s been doing some thinking about what Cas said about maybe taking Sam to see Cara Roberts at school. Dean has never spoken to Ms. Roberts, but he remembers seeing her once when he was in Principal Roman’s office getting suspended for a fight, and she’s a fucking babe, so how bad can she be at therapy? Castiel convinced Dean to take Sam for just one session with her at least, just to see if she could get him to talk about his problems with Mary’s death. And what the hell, right? Dean is out of options when it comes to Sam’s mental breakdown.

                He spots Missouri ushering Anna and Jesse into her old wood-paneled Station Wagon outside Sam’s school and he waves to her, before very nearly being mowed over as Anna and Jesse tackle him in a big hug. He hugs them back and then dumps them into the backseat of Missouri’s car before getting an unexpected hug from Missouri herself. He’s surprised how amazing it feels to be hugged by Missouri. It reminds Dean what it was like to hug Mary when she was alive, although he was a lot smaller back then. Missouri is warm, and motherly, and smells like spices, and even though Dean is taller than her, she makes him feel small and safe.

                He holds on for longer than he should, and then clears his throat awkwardly and pulls away, just in time for Sam to appear out the front door of the school. His shaggy head cocks in confusion when he sees Dean and he wanders across the parking lot of the K-8 school to where Dean and Missouri are standing.

                “Dean, what’re you doing here?” he asks when he comes up, smiling at Missouri in greeting. Dean learned a little while ago that Missouri is the school nurse here, which means she and Sam probably have a close and personal relationship given that Sam shows up with bruises all over him almost as often as Dean does at the high school.

                “Well hi to you too Sammy,” Dean snorts, rolling his eyes and ruffling Sam’s hair before opening Missouri’s car door for her.

                She eyes both of them with a raised eyebrow and then huffs a little laugh. “You two behave yourselves now,” she says before climbing into her car. Dean shuts her door gently with a mischievous grin, and she just rolls her eyes and drives away, Anna and Jesse waving out the windows at them from the back seat.

                When they disappear around the corner, Dean smacks Sam’s shoulder with the back of his hand, nodding his head towards the woods. “Come on, I’m taking you to see somebody,” he says.

                Sam shifts his too-full backpack more snuggly on his shoulders and trots after Dean when he starts walking back towards the trees. “Who?”

                Dean slings his arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Her name’s Ms. Roberts, but Cas says to call her Cara. She’s gonna talk to you about mom.”

                Sam skids to a halt. “Wait, what? You’re taking me to a shrink? No, Dean!”

                Dean rolls his eyes, reaching down and picking Sam up, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes before walking towards the trees again. “She’s not a real shrink, she’s just the counselor at my school. And Cas says she’s real nice, so suck it up.”

                “Dean!” Sam whines, kicking his lanky legs and pounding his ridiculously large fists against Dean’s back, “I’m fine! Come on, let’s just go home! I don’t wanna see a shrink!”

                “She’s _not_ a shrink, you big baby,” Dean argues, stepping off the asphalt and onto the worn, dirt path through the forest, “I have to take you to see _somebody_ since you aren’t gonna talk to me about it.”

                Sam slumps, defeated, against Dean’s back, his cheek bumping up against Dean’s spine. Dean grunts a little, shifting Sam’s dead weight more firmly onto his shoulder. Jesus, this kid’s getting big.

                “Dean, I told you I was fine,” Sam reasons, his legs giving a half-hearted kick, “This is stupid.”

                Dean rolls his eyes and shifts Sam off his shoulder, setting his feet on the ground. Sam sways a little before he finds his footing, and then glares up at Dean through his messy mop of hair. “Just…keep an open mind, okay?” Dean begs, “Please? You’re _not_ fine, so don’t give me that bull. Just… _one_ session with Cara, and if you don’t like her, I’ll leave you alone. Okay?”

                Sam huffs a few angry breaths, his jaw bunched up in frustration as he glares up at Dean with his signature little bitchface. Dean just raises one eyebrow.

                “Please?” he prods again, and Sam glares at him for a couple more seconds, and then sighs, smoothing his messy hair back with one hand. He needs another haircut soon.

                “ _Fine_ ,” Sam growls, adjusting the straps of his backpack, “ _One_ session. But that’s it Dean, I’m serious. I have homework.”

                Dean slumps in relief, reaching out and ruffling Sam’s hair up all messy again before giving him a shove. “It’s only for an hour,” he promises, and Sam just grumbles, walking ahead of him.

                Dean snorts and fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one up and rubbing absently at his burnt arm. He already had a chance to burn himself today, much to his relief. He needed it, and for now, his urge is satisfied.

                “Wanna hitch a ride?” he asks after a few minutes of silence, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the cold air and tapping the ashes from his cigarette into a pile of snow on the side of the dirt path.

                Sam glances back at him, still pouting, and considers it for a moment before gritting his teeth and sighing. He doesn’t say anything, just stops walking and waits for Dean to take a knee in front of him before crawling onto Dean’s shoulders. Once Sam’s legs are securely situated, Dean holds his cigarette between his lips and stands, grunting again as he takes on Sam’s full weight.

                “Fuck’s sake Jabba, what’d you eat today? A rhino?” Dean mumbles around his cigarette, stumbling a couple steps before getting his footing and then starting off through the trees again.

                Sam flicks the back of his head. “It’s not my fault you’re a wuss,” he snorts.

                “Oh, really?” Dean laughs, “Like you can even do a pull-up.”

                He can practically _feel_ Sam roll his eyes. Dean exhales another cloud of smoke and grins when Sam sputters and coughs, waving one hand around as the smoke smacks him right in the face. “Ugh, gross Dean, you smell like a chimney.”

                “Don’t be a little bitch.”

                “I’m not, you jerk! I’d just rather have pink lungs for as long as I can!” Sam complains, tugging on his hair in lame retaliation, making Dean wince. Sam’s pulling on the same spot of hair that Cas was yanking on Friday night. Dean’s scalp is still pleasantly sore, as is his ass. He feels himself blushing and is glad Sam can’t see his face as he takes another drag.

                They banter half-heartedly all the way back to the high school, and when they break free of the trees, passing by The Docks, Dean glances over and sees Alastair, Gordon, and Crowley still sitting at the gathering of boulders and cement slabs, smoking and chattering. They look up as Dean passes with Sam on his shoulders several dozen yards away, and Dean tries not to stumble when he sees Al’s beady eyes fixated on him. He’s been trying to be brave around Alastair, trying to stand up to him, for Cas’s sake as much as the sake of Dean’s own sanity, but it's still hard sometimes.

                He feels his hands protectively tightening a little on Sam’s legs as Alastair’s eyes land on the both of them, and Sam waves at Crowley when Crowley gives them a nod. Dean can’t muster up a smile with Alastair’s eyes so focused on them, so he gives Crowley a little nod back, and hurries into the back doors of the school. Sam ducks under the doorway but Dean keeps him on his shoulders as he walks down the halls of the school, ignoring the laughs and stares he gets carrying a twelve-year-old around after hours.

                Mr. Wyatt and Cas’s theatre teacher Ms. Barnes walk by and both of them laugh at Sam sitting on Dean’s shoulders, even going so far as to give Sam high-fives as Dean carries him past, but once they get near the main office where Cara Roberts’ office is, the janitor Marv has snapped at Dean to put Sam down, that it’s a safety hazard to carry him around like that. Dean just rolls his eyes and sets Sam on his feet, holding open the office door for his little brother and wandering inside.

                Cara is in her office when Dean knocks, and he already made an appointment for Sam earlier in the day. She smiles and welcomes Sam into her office when he peeks around Dean’s back, and both she and Dean ignore the look of trepidation on Sam’s face. Dean huffs a little laugh when he spots the fish tank full of little underwater frogs near the back of Cara’s office, and then kneels down in front of Sam.               

                “Just give her a chance,” he says to Sam, quiet enough for Cara not to hear, and then ruffles Sam’s hair and gives him a push towards the couch in her office with beaded pillows all over it. Cara gives Dean a smile and he smiles back, thanking her and stepping out of the office, flipping her sign that says **Appointment In Session** on the door and closing it for her.

                He wanders back out into the waiting area of the office and settles into a purple cushioned chair that looks like it’s seen better days. It has stains and a couple tears in it, but Dean just grimaces and plops down, digging his phone out of his pocket and flipping it open to text Cas that he brought Sam to Cara, like Castiel recommended. Cas replies a few minutes later that he’s happy to hear that, and that Cara is wonderful.

                Dean kills some time texting Castiel while Sam is in there for his hour long session, and of course since Dean is bored, the texts grow raunchier and raunchier until Dean has to call it off before he pops a boner right here in a public place. He chews on his lip to hide his blush and plays games on his phone for a little while, sort of wishing he could be in there with Sam and Cara, but knowing that there’s no way Sam is going to open up at all if Dean is right there, the stubborn little kid.

                When Sam's session is finally over an hour later, Cara Roberts' door down the hall opens up and both of them come out laughing like they've just been hanging out sharing jokes the whole time. Dean's forehead crinkles in confusion, but he still manages a half-smile, pushing himself out of the purple chair.

                Sam looks...happy. His cheeks are red and he's grinning like an idiot, as if there were no problems to begin with. As if he'd _wanted_ to be here all along and wasn't just fighting with Dean about it an hour ago.

                Cara gives Sam a high five before Dean scoops him up onto his shoulders again (and screw whatever Marv says about it being a safety hazard). He shakes Cara's hand, shooting her a grateful look, and she offers to have Sam come back in a couple weeks just to check in, at which Sam nods and agrees instantly. Dean's chest deflates with relief. _Finally_ , Sammy has someone to talk to. Dean would be a little insulted that Sam doesn't want to talk it out with _him_ , because usually Sam's the one that's all over the chick flick moments, but Dean is also the one that keeps so many things from Sam, so it's only fair, he supposes.

                Cara offers for Dean to come in alone to talk too, as they shake hands, and Dean cocks his head and asks why. Cara just shrugs and says if Dean ever needs to get anything off his chest, or is stressed out or anything, Cara is always here to talk if he needs her. Dean flushes bright red when he realizes Castiel probably talks about him to Cara during their sessions a couple times a month. Cara probably knows all sorts of things about Dean, including how much of an asshole he is.

                Still, Dean clears his throat and nods, telling Cara that he'll think about it, because right now he's too embarrassed to outright refuse to talk to her. He's never had therapy before, and doesn't really think it's necessary. Not when he's starting to open up a bit more to Cas, who has got to be the most well-balanced person on the _planet_ not to shun Dean for all the crazy Dean has laid on him so far.

                They leave the school and head back through the woods afterwards. Thankfully, Alastair and the others aren't at The Docks anymore. Dean holds back a shiver when he realizes they probably went to Ghost Town to smoke weed or drink or something. Dean whips out another cigarette to keep himself from thinking about long, dirty fingernails and the blood stain still soaked into that train car floor.

                "So?" he coaxes, taking a drag on his cigarette and snorting when Sam coughs at the smell.

                "So, what?"

                Dean exhales. "So how did you like her? Did she help?"

                He can't see him, but he knows Sam is rolling his eyes. "I told you, I don't _need_ help. But she was nice."

                Dean snorts. "So you'll go back, then?"

                Sam is quiet for a second, his forearms resting on the top of Dean's head like the surface of a desk to help keep his balance on Dean's shoulders. "I'll go back," he finally says, "But on one condition."

                Dean raises an eyebrow. "No, you cannot have the Impala when you go to college."

                Sam huffs a laugh. "The car's already yours Dean," he replies, "Different condition."

                Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He's not sure he's going to like this. "Ok, what?"

                Sam pokes his forehead from above. "You have to go see her too."

                Dean knew he wasn't going to like it. "What?"

                Sam sighs, exasperated. "Dean, look, I know I've been having some issues lately, okay? But I'm not blind," he says, "Something's going on with you too. I'm not even gonna pretend to know what it is, but you've been acting weird for months now. So if you want me to see Cara, you gotta see her too."

                Dean chews on the filter of his cigarette, tasting the menthol and swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat. _Fuck_. Looks like he hasn't been quite as careful as he thought he was being. He glances down briefly at his arm, making sure his sleeve is pulled all the way down and hiding all the burns. The last thing he needs is for Sammy to see that, especially when Sam is having problems of his own.

                "Dean?" Sam prods, "Deal?"

                Dean exhales a long spout of smoke, gritting his teeth. _God dammit_.

                " _Fine_ , yeah, whatever," he grumbles, and he can practically smell the smug satisfaction rolling off of Sam. They walk in silence for a while after that. Dean mostly spends the quiet trying to think of ways he can avoid going to therapy, but he can't come up with any. Sam will know if Dean's not going. He'll find out somehow. And knowing him, he'll get Cas aboard the bandwagon and Dean will have eyes on him all the time, _making sure_ he goes.

                Fuck, he's so screwed.

                He lifts Sammy off his shoulders when they finally get home, and Sam holds his backpack straps as he wanders inside. John isn't here, which is good. Dean doesn't want to have to deal with him. It's been kind of a long day.

                He shrugs out of his leather jacket and drops it in his room before just wandering into Sam's to hang out more. He has nothing better to do anyway. Sam is pushing things aside on his desk to get started on his homework, and Dean spots the piles upon piles of gruesome drawings Sam has made over the past couple weeks. He sits on the edge of Sammy's bed and reaches out, scooping up the drawings. He sees Sam stiffen a little and glance his way when Dean does it, but doesn't stop him from looking at them.

                Dean's seen most of these anyway. It still deeply disturbs him that Sam sees himself this way, as this demon child that caused such a horrible tragedy. Initially, he gave Dean all these stupid, fucked up _reasons_ why he thought he caused the crash, why it was all his fault, like he'd been _thinking_ about it so hard. Sam said that if he hadn't been crying while mom was driving, she wouldn't have crashed the car. Dean doesn't even remember if Sam was crying or not before the car crashed, but it doesn't matter. That's bullshit. Then Sam said that mom wouldn't have needed the coffee that she spilled while driving (which led to the crash) if baby Sammy didn't keep her awake at night.

                Some of the little theories Sam came up with were so fucking asinine that Dean had actually laughed when Sam told him. He's sort of kicking himself for doing that now, for laughing when Sam said such ridiculous stuff, because he's pretty sure that's part of the reason why Sam shut down and wouldn't talk about The Accident or Mary with Dean anymore. But at least he has Cara now.

                As Sam cracks open his history textbook to start working on some homework, Dean flips through the drawings he's done, staring at different versions of the same thing: his bloody, dead mother and his demon baby brother. Dean is in the drawings too, of course, usually just laying there bloodied and broken, but sometimes laying there on fire, head thrown back and screaming. Which is sort of inaccurate. Dean didn't scream. Even when he was on fire, he didn't make a sound. Maybe he was in shock.

                And then there are the drawings where Sam has depicted himself as some kind of monster ripping Dean's throat out. Dean has a theory that maybe Sam thinks everything around him is cursed or something, just because they lost their mother. Maybe Sam thinks one day Dean will die because of him. Which is also really fucking stupid, but Dean doesn't say so. He has no idea how long he looks at the pictures, flipping through them, gritting his teeth, but Sam's voice eventually breaks him out of his trance.

                "Dean?" Sam asks quietly from his chair, and Dean blinks, looking up at him. Sam looks a little uncomfortable, and his eyes flicker between the drawings in Dean's hands and Dean's face.

                "What's up?" Dean replies, and his voice is a little tight, betraying his inner turmoil. He clears his throat and fiddles awkwardly with the drawings.

                Sam looks at them for a moment and then sighs, looking down at his hands. "Can we get rid of those?" he asks, nodding towards the drawings. Dean blinks at him for a moment, confused.

                "Like, throw them away?"

                Sam chews on his lip and shakes his head. "No. I don't know, something more permanent than that. I...well Cara said...maybe...I don't know. Can we just get rid of them somehow?"

                Dean purses his lips and glances at the drawings. He'd love nothing more than to get those abominations out of his sight. "Well...we could burn them or something. Destroy them completely?"

                Sam fixes him with a look. "Don't you think that'd be a little ironic?" he asks, and it takes Dean a second to get what he means.

                He huffs a little laugh, feeling kind of sick, his scars flaring up a bit with phantom pains since they're on the topic of burning. "Yeah, you got me there," he chuckles, and Sam gives him a weak smile. Dean studies his brother for a moment, takes in the raw look in Sam's eyes. Sam has always had those dewy puppy dog eyes, but right now they're making Dean hurt. Of course he knows that one session with a high school counselor isn't going to automatically make Sam better, but he hopes maybe Sam will start improving now, start realizing that The Accident wasn't his fault. Dean can't take much more of his little brother being in pain. Dean's the only one who's allowed to be in pain.

                "Call Cas," Sam suggests, shrugging.

                Dean's eyebrows press together. "Why?"

                Sam sets his pencil down, cracking his knuckles a bit. "I don't know, maybe he has an idea what to do with them. And he's fun."

                Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. "You're just using that as an excuse to see Cas again, aren't you?"

                Sam bites his lip and looks down. "Maybe," he replies, "I like Cas. I think he's good for you."

                Dean raises his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?"

                Sam rolls his eyes. "Nothing, forget about it," he snorts, "Would you just call him? If we're gonna get rid of the drawings, might as well make a memorial out of it or something. Mom deserves more than just two people at a memorial."

                Dean's eyebrows shoot up again. A _memorial_? When did this turn into a memorial?

                Sam seems to notice the confusion on Dean's face, and he flushes red a little, clearing his throat. "It's just something that Cara suggested today, to help me...you know," Sam explains in a mumble, "She said I should have my own funeral since I don't remember mom's. And getting rid of the drawings is...I don't know."

                Dean's lips part in understanding, and he feels a bit of guilt swirl in his stomach. Sure, he's not really responsible for the fact that Sam never got to say a proper goodbye to Mary, but that doesn't mean he's not allowed to feel bad about it.

                "Killing two birds with one stone," Dean surmises, thumbing at the edge of the stack of drawings. He chews on the inside of his cheek as he studies Sam for a minute. "Did you tell Cara about the drawings too? That why you wanna get rid of them?"

                Sam nods. "She said I should try drawing nicer things. Draw mom when she was alive and stuff."

                Dean sags a little in relief, looking down at the gory drawings in his hands. "Alright then, I guess we're having a funeral," he says, slapping the stack of papers against his thigh and standing up, "You still want me to call Cas?"

                Sam glances up at him. "Yeah," he nods, "Mom deserves more than two people there."

                Dean huffs a small laugh, rubbing at his scars as they start to ache again. "You wanna call Jess? Have her come?"

                Sam shakes his head. "Nah, she's doing some sort of community service thing tonight at the city dump outside of town."

                "Why the hell do they need community service at the dump?" Dean snorts.

                Sam shrugs. "I think they're weeding out all the recyclable things from the trash. It's for her Earth Club thing."

                Dean pauses and then shrugs, humming in understanding. "So, what? Should we bury these instead of burn them?" he asks, holding up the drawings as he makes his way towards the door to go call Cas. He feels a little excited flutter in his stomach at just the thought of Cas coming over tonight. It's stupid how excited he gets every time he gets to see Cas, even if it's for a little while.

                "Yeah, we can bury them," Sam agrees, picking at his fingernails. Dean studies his brother for another long moment. Sam seems subdued, a little sad still. He's obviously still hurting. Dean just hopes it won't be for much longer.

                He slips out into the hallway and calls Castiel quickly, thankful that he's already had the talk about Mary Winchester and The Accident with Cas, even if it was only a couple days ago. It's nice that he doesn't have to hide that from him anymore.

                Castiel, of course, agrees to come over immediately, even when Dean only tells him that they're having a little funeral and they need some guests. Dean hopes that John won't come home any time while Cas is here, but the Roadhouse has half-off beers every Monday night, so he assumes his father will just be there until two in the morning like always.

                When they hear the knock on the front door twenty minutes later, Sam is the one who goes out to answer it. He perks up when Castiel is there, and Dean thinks maybe Sam just didn't want to do this alone with Dean. Maybe he thought it would be awkward or something. Either way, he's glad Sam asked him to invite Cas. It certainly puts Dean at ease.

                Dean waits until Sam disappears into his room to grab the drawings again before pulling Cas in for a kiss. It's like a sigh of relief, and the phantom pains that have slowly been getting worse and worse in Dean's scars throughout the afternoon with all this talk of The Accident fade away a bit the second Castiel's hand comes to rest on his side. Dean doesn't shy away from the touch like he normally would. Cas knows about the scars. He knows, and he doesn't care. He thinks they're _beautiful_.

                When they finally break away from the kiss, it's to Sam clearing his throat awkwardly from behind them, and Dean rolls his eyes, grabbing Cas's hand and pulling him along towards the back door. The three of them wander down to the edge of the trees with a couple of shovels in hand, and find a relatively snow-free patch of dirt tucked away in some shadows where they can hold their funeral. It takes them about a half an hour to dig a grave in the frozen ground that Sam feels is a suitable size for the drawings.

                Even if they're just drawings, they represent more than that for Sam. They represent his guilt, his darkness, and most of all, his mourning. Burying them isn't going to make all of that go away, obviously, but it's a start. Dean is actually really fucking grateful he took Sam to Cara. One appointment and Sam is already taking steps towards healing a bit.

                Dean lets Sam drop the drawings one by one into the shallow grave they dug, and none of them say anything as he does it. Castiel tangles his fingers with Dean's and squeezes his hand reassuringly. Leave it to Cas to notice that Dean is having a bit of a hard time with this too. He already had to attend one funeral for his mother - doing it again is surprisingly challenging. But he's doing this for Sammy.

                They stand there for a long time just looking at the drawings, and when Sam gives a little nod, they take the time to fill the grave in again, burying the drawings with frozen dirt for good. While Dean and Sam shovel, Castiel wanders off into the trees and comes back periodically with medium-sized rocks, which he stacks on top of the fresh grave once they're done patting the dirt back down as a sort of headstone.

                Afterwards, when all their cheeks and noses are stinging and pink from the cold of the late afternoon, they head back inside the house. Dean slings his arm around Sammy's shoulders and ruffles his hair, and Sam gives him a weak smile in return. Castiel is on Sam's other side, and simply places one hand on Sam's shoulder, patting it reassuringly. For a half a second, Dean feels like a father with his husband, their son between them, but he shakes that thought off almost as quickly as it manifests, blushing a little because that's stupid and embarrassing.

                The squash lady is standing at her window again, sipping tea and watching them as they head in the back door. Dean pauses and gives her a small wave before he disappears into his house with his brother and Castiel. She smiles in return, and Dean thinks maybe Cas was right about her being a sweet old lady with nothing better to do than look out her windows.

                Dean decides they should warm up a bit and then walk into town for dinner, since the only thing they have in the kitchen is a single can of green beans and a six pack of beer in the fridge. Sam chooses Biggerson's, mostly because he's craving their cheese fries. Sam doesn't eat junk food all that often if he can help it, so the fact that he wants cheese fries concerns Dean a little, but he lets it go. He thinks he'll probably spend the night in Sammy's room tonight, just to make sure he's okay.

                Castiel stops to talk to a small, skinny boy working at the hot dog stand next door to Biggerson's for a couple minutes before they go inside. He tells Dean that the boy is named Alfie and he and Castiel were in theatre together. Dean recognizes Alfie from the winter play, and also just from the halls at school. He's pretty sure Gordon or Zach gave the guy a black eye once, but who _haven't_ they given a black eye to at one point or another? Even the popular jock guys weren't safe from Dean and his friends. He tries to give Alfie a little smile, as if to say _hey look, I've changed, I promise I won't beat the shit out of you_ , but Alfie just adjusts his dorky Wiener Hut hat and starts talking to another customer.

                Dean sighs. Oh well. It's not like everyone will automatically forgive him for the shit he's done. Not everyone is a saint like Cas. Dean still doesn't entirely believe he deserves how well Cas treats him. But he promised Cas not to bring that up anymore. For some reason Castiel thinks Dean deserves the fucking world on a silver platter, and Dean's not going to sit here and try to argue with someone like that, who believes in people so much.

                Biggerson's is fairly busy for a Monday night, but just like the Roadhouse, they have a few specials on Mondays only, so a bunch of students from the high school and local families are here taking advantage of the discounts. Castiel squints at the menu, at a loss for what to get, so Dean plucks the menu out of his hands and orders both of them a burger. He remembers how much Cas loved the burgers at Benny's Cajun place, so he'll probably love the cheap burgers here at Biggerson's. Sammy tries to hide a smile when Dean orders for Cas, and Dean flushes red at how domestic all that was. He blows his straw wrapper at Sam's nose in retaliation and they start up a war with the sugar packets on the table until their waitress politely asks them to stop.

                Dean and Cas sit on the same side of the booth, and even though Castiel has a bunch of room on his other side near the window, he sits right up against Dean, their thighs pressed together under the table, and when Dean sees the way Sam is looking at the two of them, the way they're occasionally completing each other's sentences and brushing hands like a disgusting couple from a sitcom, Dean suddenly understands why Sam wanted him to invite Cas.

                Sam wanted a distraction tonight. He didn't want to break down. He wanted to watch his big brother unconsciously gush over Castiel, wanted to watch his big brother be _happy_ for a little while, to distract himself from the fact that they don't have a mother, and the fact that Sam still thinks he's partially to blame for that.

                When Dean realizes this, he feels a pit form in his stomach, but he plays up his flirting with Castiel nonetheless. If Sammy needs a distraction from his own brain, then Dean's going to damn well give it to him. He feels a little better with every smile Sam shoots their way whenever Dean and Cas do something nauseatingly cute, even when they start stuffing fries into each other's mouths like cake at a wedding.

                Dean pays the bill, despite Cas's protests, and then they go to Hautley's Bend for a while, just to avoid going home. Now that the sun's gone down, it's cold, but they suck it up and take turns on the swings, and push Sam on the merry-go-round. The metal slide is too cold to use, but Sam dares Dean to lick it, just to fuck with him. When Dean walks over with every intention of following through with that dare, both Castiel and Sam grab him and pull him away, calling him crazy.

                When they're finally too cold to stay anymore, Dean and Castiel stand there for a moment kissing goodbye, while Sam stands off to the side with his back turned and his hands over his ears singing to himself to avoid hearing the sounds of lips smacking. Dean takes advatage of the small window of privacy and wraps himself tightly around Cas, plunging his tongue deep into Castiel's mouth and startling a little huff of laughter out of him. Cas doesn't let him get away with it, pushing back just as hard and sliding his tongue into Dean's mouth in retaliation. Dean, of course, lets himself go loose and allows Castiel to take over the kiss until Sam clears his throat loudly through his humming as a signal for them to hurry things along.

                Dean plants one last lingering kiss directly in the center of Castiel's forehead, and then they go their separate ways. Dean slings his arm around Sam's shoulders and they head home to their dark, cold house. John is still gone, to Dean's relief, and when they get home, Dean slips into his room quickly just to pull on some sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt with an AC/DC logo on it. As he changes, he throws his dirty clothes on top of the boxes and albums in the corner that are still there from the night of Sam's bad breakdown.

                He stands there in his room for a moment just eyeing the boxes. Maybe it's time for Sam to have another look at those. He has to start somewhere, right? Dean doesn't know all of what Sam talked about with Cara today, but maybe this will help Sam move on. He considers it for a few minutes, and then just sighs, walking over and throwing all his dirty laundry off the boxes and albums, picking up as many as he can and carrying them to Sam's room down the hall.

                Sam is laying on his stomach on the floor drawing again. Dean's stomach drops when he sees Sam drawing, because he thinks he's drawing more gory horrible pictures of The Accident, but then he realizes Sam is just drawing a picture of Mary. She's alive, and smiling, and there's some kind of margarita in her hand. Dean sighs in relief, setting the boxes down, and Sam glances up at them.

                "What are you doing?" he asks.

                Dean shrugs. "I figured you could take another look through this shit if you want," he says, "Maybe go into it with a fresh head this time around."

                Sam chews on his lip, just staring at the boxes Dean has brought in silently. Dean slips back to his room really quick to grab the rest of Mary Winchester's albums and belongings, bringing them all back to Sam's room. Eventually, they'll have to put this stuff back in John's closet before he's sober enough to notice they're gone and all hell breaks loose. But for now, Dean thinks Sammy might benefit from taking another look at them with a more open mind.

                Sam doesn't pay much attention to the boxes and books, but Dean just lets it go. Sam will look through them again, when he's ready. Dean lays down on his stomach in front of Sam, looking at Sam's drawing, watching as Mary Winchester's face comes together beautifully on the off-white construction paper. Sam is a damn good artist, it actually makes Dean kind of proud, when he's busy not freaking out about the things Sam chooses to draw sometimes. But this drawing is nice - it's realistic, and their mother was gorgeous, so it's a good subject.

                Sam gets a little embarrassed after a couple minutes of Dean just watching him draw, and shoves a piece of paper and his tub of colored pencils at Dean, telling him to draw something too and stop hovering. Dean just snorts and plucks up a bright blue pencil immediately (and he's not even going to pretend that he doesn't know _why_ he chose a blue pencil), doodling on the paper for a while. He ends up drawing a big blue eye (shocker), and then draws a picture of the obsidian knife that Cas gave him for his birthday.

                When he's finished doodling, he sets the pencils aside and admires his work for a second.

                "That's not half bad," Sam comments, glancing at Dean's drawings and then going back to shading in the wheels of the Impala drawing that he started on after Mary's that Dean hasn't noticed until now.

                Dean just shrugs, humming a little. He's never really given drawing much serious thought, but now that he tries it, he actually kind of likes it. It's sort of like making origami with Cas, creating something beautiful like that. It's sort of satisfying in a way. He's tried drawing before - he's even tried drawing _Cas_ before - but never too seriously. Mostly, he just did it to avoid paying attention in class.

                "You should draw something for Castiel," Sam says when he sees Dean eyeing his work with a self-satisfied expression on his face. Dean schools his expression and glances up at Sam.

                "Why?" he snorts.

                Sam rolls his eyes. "I think Cas'd like it. And you're actually a good artist."

                Dean huffs a little breath, looking back down at his random drawings. He supposes they're not bad, as far as drawings go. But he's seen better. Sam taps the end of his colored pencil against his chin for a moment, studying Dean's paper.

                "There's this girl at my school whose older brother asked someone to prom at the high school by making them a whole notebook of his drawings," he says, and Dean looks up at his brother.

                "So?" he asks.

                Sam purses his lips and shrugs. "I'm just saying...Castiel seems like the kind of guy who would really like something like that. I think it would mean a lot to him."

                Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. "What's with you and playing matchmaker tonight, huh? You've been all about Castiel since you left your session with Cara."

                Sam drops his eyes, chewing on his colored pencil and shrugging. Dean reaches out and pulls the colored pencil out of his brother's mouth when he starts to see Sam's tongue turning green. Sam wipes spit off his chin from the movement. "I don't know...I just think you guys are nice together. And Castiel makes you happy."

                Dean tilts his head. "So?" he asks, as if it matters whether Dean is happy or not, "And me and Cas aren't actually officially _together_ , you know."

                Sam rolls his eyes, a little too dramatically. "Oh, come _on_ , Dean, of course you are. Have you _seen_ the way you look at each other?"

                Dean pauses, hesitating, and then just kind of swallows, a little embarrassed. "Okay, well, whatever...that doesn't explain why you've been acting weird all night."

                Sam scratches the back of his neck, balancing awkwardly on one elbow as he does it since they're both still laying on their stomachs. "I don't really know," he admits, "I just think it's nice to see you so happy for a change. And it makes it easier not to think about mom when I'm thinking about you and Cas."

                Dean chews the inside of his cheek. "So you're living vicariously through us?"

                Sam sighs, exasperated, and rolls his eyes again. " _No_ ," he snorts, "Forget about it. Never mind."

                They're silent for a moment. Dean studies his brother as Sam goes back to shading in the hubcaps of the Impala. He's not exactly sure what's going on in Sam's head (fuck, when is he ever?) but he figures he'll have time to understand later. It looks like Sam is done talking about it for now.

                Dean clears his throat, licking his lips, and glances back down at his drawings, trailing his fingers over them for a moment, the smudges of waxy colored pencil a little smoother than the rough construction paper.

                "What kind of stuff would I put in it?" he asks, and Sam glances back up at him.

                "In what?"

                Dean looks up at him. "In the notebook. If I drew a thing of pictures for Cas. What should I draw?"

                Sam studies him for a moment. "Um...I don't know. Draw penises."

                Dean barks a laugh. "Now that is just incredibly inappropriate Sam Winchester."

                Sam cracks a small smile. "Accurate though," he points out, and then scratches his head with the end of his colored pencil, "Maybe draw like...I don't know, Cas's favorite animal. Or a picture of you guys together or something."

                Dean ponders that for a moment, pursing his lips, and then looks at Sam. His eyes are dewy and hopeful, and _damn it_ , Dean can't just say no now. If his relationship with Cas makes Sam so damn happy, then Dean can't just _not_. He shrugs. "Alright, fine, I'll give it a shot. You got a notebook?"

                Sam grins, pushing himself upright and walking on his knees over to his desk, pulling out a composition notebook from the bottom drawer. It looks crisp and unused. Of course Sammy would have a collection of unused notebooks in his drawer, the nerd. He tosses it to Dean and then crawls back over, flopping down on his stomach again. Dean cracks open the notebook, eyeing the blank first page, tapping his fingers on it.

                Of course, the first thing that comes to mind to draw is Cas himself. What the hell, right? He may as well give drawing Cas a try. And if his art doesn't turn out all that great, he'll just figure out something else nice to do with Cas. Maybe just print off a bunch of pictures of them together and tape them into here to give to Cas. Kind of like Cas's book of houses.

                He plucks up a peach-colored pencil, since it's the closest to skin-colored that he can find, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam glance up at him and smile a little as Dean starts drawing. He outlines Cas's angular face first, and then his toned arms. For obvious reason, Castiel ends up shirtless in the drawing, because Cas is just fucking _gorgeous_ when he's shirtless, with his flat stomach and his dusty pink nipples and his prominent collarbones and hips. Dean shades in a lot of detail, even going so far as to add that tiny trail of hair under Cas's bellybutton, and the jagged scar on his side from the stabbing in Little Rock.

                He sees Sam glancing up every now and then at the drawing of Cas, and Dean blushes but keeps working, hoping Sam won't say anything about the fact that Dean seems intimately familiar with how Cas looks without his shirt on. Dean spends a lot of time drawing his crazy, messy dark hair just right, and uses three different shades of blue colored pencils to get the color of Cas's eyes just right.

                For some reason, before Dean even thinks about it, he draws a glowing, silver halo ringing Castiel's head. It fits his personality, Dean thinks. He recalls that dream he had about Cas a while ago, before they really knew each other, where Cas was pulling him out of his burning car, like some kind of guardian angel rescuing him. Dean smiles to himself and draws a pair of textured, fluffy black wings sprouting from Cas's back in the picture, before adding in his muscular legs and a pair of boxer shorts to cover his naughty bits. He'd draw Cas completely naked, since Dean basically prefers Cas naked over anything, but Sam is right here, and Dean doesn't think that'd be very easy to explain, even though Sam's mature and he probably has already figured out that Dean and Cas are fucking.

                When he's done with the drawing, he takes a second to admire it. It's impossible to capture how amazingly attractive Cas is in real life on paper, but Dean did a pretty good job, he thinks. Sam peers at the drawing too.

                "What's with the wings?" he asks, and Dean glares at him.

                "Mind your own business, nosy!" he huffs, shoving Sam's head away and flipping the page in the composition notebook so the drawing is hidden. Sam just chuckles and goes back to drawing a picture of a cute curly-haired blonde girl. When Dean asks, Sam tells him that it's Jess, and Dean snatches the paper away.

                "Damn, Sammy, good catch," he compliments.

                Sam snorts and steals his drawing back. "You'll meet her soon."

                Dean smiles, and picks at the random different colors under his short fingernails from the colored pencils. He sits up, to relieve some of the ache in his elbows from leaning on the hard floor for so long. Sam is engrossed in his drawings, and Dean doesn't want to cut the night short. It's still relatively early, anyway. He sits there cross-legged for a moment, and then reaches behind himself, pulling one of the boxes from John's closet forward, rifling through it for something to do.

                He pointedly ignores the manila folder where he knows there are a bunch of pictures of himself in the hospital after The Accident, and avoids the ring box where Mary's wedding ring is tucked inside. He pulls out a small stack of journals that he knows are his mother's from all the way back in college leading up to the months before her death. He's never read through them, but tonight he decides just to select the most recent one, flipping it open. If anything, he'll get some ideas for what to write and draw in this notebook he's going to give to Cas.

                For a while, he just reads. It's a little weird, reading a diary his mother wrote, like looking straight into Mary's brain, but Dean keeps reading anyway, ignoring the ache in his heart and the phantom pains in his side. He reads excerpts Mary wrote about Dean, and how she expected Dean to be jealous when she and John brought Sam home from the hospital where he was born. Instead, she writes, Dean was excited and overjoyed that Sammy was alive, and hadn't even shown an ounce of jealousy, too busy helping with whatever he could to make sure baby Sammy was okay all the time. She writes that Dean even learned how to sing _Hey Jude_ , so that he could sing Sam to sleep at night sometimes if Mary was working late, or just if Dean felt like it.

                Dean looks over at Sam's shaggy head where Sam is busy drawing still, trying to remember all of this. Dean was old enough when Mary died to remember a good deal of things, but he doesn't remember this. It aches deep in his chest reading about how their lives used to be before The Accident, but Dean just studies Sam for a while and then keeps reading. He comes across several long entries about how much Mary loved Sam, and all the funny things Sam did as a baby. Dean chuckles a little when he reads that Sam used to start laughing, even as a baby, when he farted, and it just made Dean and Mary and John all laugh too.

                Sam glances up when Dean chuckles, and eyes the diary in his hands. "Is that mom's?" he asks, his voice sounding a little tight.

                Dean looks over at him, still grinning. "Yeah," he replies, "She wrote some funny stuff about you in here."

                Sam looks at the diary for a second, a weird, hollow expression on his face, and then looks back down at his drawing, saying nothing. Dean notices he's drawing another picture of Mary, this time with John by her side, a much happier version of John. Dean just shrugs and keeps reading.

                Until he hears quiet sniffling a few minutes later.

                He looks back down at Sam, and sees that his little brother is biting his lip hard, his chin quivering. There's a single tear rolling down his cheek.

                _Fuck_. Dean moved too fast. He should have waited before bringing all this stuff back in here. He feels his stomach drop like lead and he sets the diary aside.

                "Sammy..." he says, and Sam stiffens.

                "I'm sorry," he whispers shakily, and if there was any doubt that Sam is crying, it's squashed by the way his voice cracks. His hand shakes where he's clutching his colored pencil, the tip hovering over Mary Winchester's face in his drawing.

                "Sam, don't. Don't apologize. We've been over this," Dean says, reaching out. But before he can touch Sam, Sam suddenly growls and scribbles over the face in his drawing, gouging deep, black lines over the drawing of Mary's face first, and then John's, digging the pencil in so hard the paper tears and the tip of the pencil snaps off. When it does, Sam just abandons it, dropping the pencil and burying his face in his hands and bursting into tears.

                _Fuck_. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Dean thought tonight was going fucking _well_. God, he feels so _stupid_. Sam had  _one_ session with a counselor. Of _course_ he's not magically better.

                Dean reaches out, his heart clenching in his chest, and he grabs Sam's arms, trying to pull his hands away from his face.

                "No!" Sam sobs, slapping Dean's hands away, "Please, Dean. Stop! Just...leave me alone! Please."

                Dean grits his teeth. God, if Mary could see her youngest son now. It would break her heart, especially after writing the things she did about how much she loved Sam in her diary.

                Dean feels that helplessness crawling up the back of his throat again, and he panics. He does the first thing he can think to do. He just grabs Sam and flips him onto his back, pinning him to the floor. Sam yells at him to get off through his tears, but Dean just straddles his stomach, holding him immobile, ignoring Sam's sobbing cries to be left alone, and that he's sorry, that it's all his fault.

                Dean snatches up Mary's diary from the floor again, and just starts reading it out loud. It's still open to one of the entries about how much Mary loved Sam, describing funny things Sam did sometimes when he was a baby. Dean reads it word for word, ignoring Sam's shouts to _stop_ , and to just _leave him alone_. Because Dean isn't going to leave Sam alone. He's not going to leave his brother alone like this.

                Dean just keeps reading out loud, and eventually, Sam stops fighting him. He's still crying, laying there uselessly under Dean, but his eyes are fixated on Dean's face, and he's listening. He's _listening_ , thank god. He's listening to the things Mary wrote about him. Sam was _loved._ Sam _is_ loved. Dean doesn't know where he went wrong and made Sam forget that, doesn't know when Sam decided to start blaming himself for things nobody can change, but damn it, Sam's going to listen to this now, and he's going to realize. Mary _loved_ him. Just like Mary _loved_ Dean.

                Dean just keeps reading. He must read fifteen pages of the diary, all about Sam when he was a baby, how he gurgled happily when Mary bathed him in the sink, and how he cried every night at three in the morning, and how all it took was tucking a stuffed pickle toy in next to Sam in his crib to lull him back to sleep, and how he loved mashed peas more than anything when he got old enough to start eating real food instead of formula and breast milk.

                Dean reads until he's completely out of breath and panting, and then he just lets the diary drop to his side limply, and he looks down at Sammy laying there on the floor underneath him, still crying silently, staring up at Dean, his eyes wide and agonized. A thousand emotions flicker across Sam's face over the course of a couple seconds, and then he crumples and starts sobbing again.

                Dean grits his teeth and drops the diary completely, pulling Sam up by his shoulders and hugging him hard to his chest. _God_ , all he wants to do is make Sam forget about all this. It _hurts_ to see Sam this way. To Dean's relief, Sam hugs him back instead of fighting the embrace. Dean shushes him, Sam's floppy hair tickling his chin as Sam cries into his shirt.

                "She loved you Sammy," Dean says before he can think about it too much, "She would _never_ blame you for this. So you shouldn't either. This is _not_ your fault."

                Sam chokes on another sob, but Dean swears his little brother is nodding where his face is buried in Dean's chest. Dean looks down and sees Sam's head moving up and down. Is Sam hearing him? Is Sam finally accepting what Dean has been trying to tell him?

                It takes Sam a few minutes to suck in enough breath to say something, and still, Dean has to strain to understand what his brother is saying. When he listens closer, he can hear Sammy mumbling "I know, I know, I know," over and over, the same way he used to sob _I'm sorry_ over and over. Dean's heart skips in his chest with hope.

                "It's not your fault Sammy," he says again, more firmly, like Sam didn't hear him the first time.

                This time, Dean is _sure_ Sam is nodding, and he hears Sam mumbling _I know_ again.

                "I just want her back," Sam sobs, clutching handfuls of Dean's shirt, "I just want her to be alive. I don't even know her...and all I want is mom."

                Dean feels his throat tighten, and he blinks rapidly, forcing himself not to tear up. He just hugs Sammy harder and nods. "I know," he says, gritting his teeth, "I miss her too man. But it's not your fault she's gone. It's no one's fault."

                Sam just sucks in a shaky breath, choking out more sobs, burying his face harder in Dean's chest.

                "It sucks, but it is what it is," Dean says uselessly, because he can't think of anything else to say, "But you still have me. And I'm not going anywhere. So you need to snap out of this."

                He doesn't really know what else to say, so he just trails off, listening to Sam sob and forcing himself not to cry too. His scars are aching again, but he ignores it, just holding onto Sammy until Sam's sobs eventually trail off into weak sniffles.

                After several long minutes of silence, Sam finally pulls his face away from Dean's chest, his cheeks red and splotchy and his nose running, and he looks up at his big brother. Dean uses his sleeve to wipe away some of the remaining tears from Sam's eyes and climbs off of him, pulling Sam to his feet.

                "I think it's time for bed, huh?" he says, and Sam chokes out a small laugh, letting Dean pull him over to his bed, crawling in between the sheets when Dean holds them up. As Dean tucks the blankets back around him, Sam grabs his wrist.

                "Will..." he starts to say, and then has to swallow before trying again, "Will you read me more of mom's diary?"

                Dean looks down at him, and even though Sam is still crying a little, Dean feels overwhelmed with relief. If Sam wants to hear the diary, then maybe it means he's finally starting to get better. Dean hopes so, anyway. Fuck, maybe Dean  _does_ need to talk to Cara, if only just to talk about what to do about Sam.

                He nods a little, ruffling his brother's hair again. "Sure, Sammy," he says, walking over and retrieving the diary from the floor and carrying it back to Sam's bed. Sam scoots over so that Dean can lay down, rolling onto his stomach and cracking open the diary where he left off.

                Sam listens intently, his face brightening a little when Dean reads things Mary wrote about him. Dean feels his chest loosen a bit when Sam actually laughs at some parts. Laughing is certainly preferable to crying anyway.

                Dean keeps reading until he reaches the end, and by the time he finally closes the diary, Sam's eyes are shut and he's snoring softly next to Dean, dried tear tracks on his face. Dean stares at his brother for a few minutes, torn between wanting to be relieved and wanting to be careful. It kind of feels like they had a breakthrough tonight, but Sam could easily revert back to his dark mindset tomorrow. Dean's going to have to tread lightly for a while. He thinks he'll probably bring Sammy back to Cara sooner than a couple weeks from now. Whatever she said to him today seemed to help a bit.

                Eventually, Dean sighs and scrubs at his face, sliding out of the bed to go pack up the box across the room and put away Sam's art supplies. He flips the composition notebook open again and looks at the picture he drew of Castiel with black angel wings. Dean's eyes are drooping with exhaustion, but he feels compelled to write something underneath the drawing in the little space left over on the page.

                He plucks up a pen mixed into the colored pencils and writes the first thing that comes to mind. It's poetic, and cheesy, and stupid, and Dean actually blushes as he writes it, but once it's down on paper, he thinks to himself that maybe he should take up writing too as well as drawing. He's not bad at either.

                Taking one last look at the drawing and quote, he closes the composition notebook and carries it to his room, tucking it under his own pillow so that Sam doesn't peek in it and see what Dean wrote to Castiel.

                He fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans on the floor and carries it back to Sam's room, turning off the shade-less lamp on Sam's desk before climbing into the bed next to his snoring brother. He tucks a pillow between himself and Sam, wrapping one hand around his brother's little wrist and fumbling with his phone with his other hand.

                He opens up a new message to Cas, deliberating what to say for a few minutes. He wants to thank Cas for having Dean bring Sam to Cara, but he already thanked him. He wants to text Cas the same thing that Dean wrote in the composition notebook, but that's way too cheesy. Beside him, Sam snuffles a little in his sleep, and Dean glances at him for a moment, swallowing hard.

                They're alright. They're going to be alright. He just has to keep telling himself that.

                He grits his teeth, holding Sam's wrist tighter, and sends one quick message to Castiel before going to sleep:

                **_I think Sammy's gonna be okay._**


	28. Marlon Brando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually managed to write a chapter that's under 10,000 words! Woohoo!

                It’s the barking that makes Dean look up. Usually, Hautley’s Bend is all but abandoned, nothing but the sound of the wind in the trees and the occasional car driving by. But Dean doesn’t come here all that often in the middle of the afternoon, so it shouldn’t surprise him that someone is walking their dogs here.

                He’s sitting at the picnic table right next to the park, drawing in his composition notebook an embarrassingly raunchy picture of himself and Castiel fucking against the brick wall of some alleyway. It was only last night that he started this book of drawings and quotes for Castiel in Sammy’s room, but already Dean has drawn six pages’ worth of stuff. He’s finding that drawing is helping to keep his mind off of things he doesn’t want to think about. It’s surprisingly cathartic.

                He left school early today, right after math class, because, one, he hates his last class of the day, and two, he’s seen Alastair fucking _everywhere_ today. Everywhere Dean turned, Alastair was just _there._ Leaning against a wall in the hallway, or staring at him from the lunch line, or standing at the sinks in the bathroom. Fucking _everywhere_. Dean isn’t a paranoid guy generally, but he _swears_ Alastair is following him. He’s stopped trying to figure out what Al’s motives are and has just sort of decided that the guy is insane. But it’s sort of a relief that Al is following Dean in a way, because if he’s following Dean, that means he’s leaving Castiel alone. And that’s more important.

                Even if Dean had to leave school early because of how unsettling it is to see Alastair everywhere.

                So he came to Hautley’s Bend to draw. It’s been quiet and barren for most of the chilly afternoon, but the silence is shattered by the dogs he hears barking. When Dean looks up from his notebook, his eyes grow wide in surprise.

                The squash lady is there, wandering down the street in an ankle-length dress and a ridiculous fur coat that looks like something out of Harry Potter. She’s walking five of her little dogs on thin leashes (although Dean _swears_ she owns more dogs than that in her house next door) and she’s talking, although she’s walking alone, so Dean isn’t really sure who she’s talking to. Maybe to the dogs.

                He just stares at her for a second in shock, pulling in another drag on his cigarette. He’s never seen her leave her house before. She even has Andy from the grocery store deliver her food every week. Dean hasn’t even seen her go get her _mail_ for Christ’s sake, so it’s weird seeing her out and about, walking her little dogs like a normal person.

                Dean was halfway convinced she was a ghost for a while there, until Castiel saw her too of course.

                She leads her dogs along the sidewalk at the edge of the park, carrying a little paper bag, and she glances up after Dean’s been staring at her for almost a minute. She spots Dean sitting there at the picnic table a few dozen yards away and pauses, hesitating before giving Dean a small wave and a smile. Dean huffs a little laugh and waves back, his cigarette held between his lips.

                He halfway expects her to come walking over here to sit with him, because this lady seems strangely fascinated with Dean, but she just continues on her way, pulling her dogs along the sidewalk and sitting down on a park bench past the playground. Dean just watches her curiously, tapping ashes off his cigarette. She lets go of the five leashes in her hand, but the dogs stay at her feet anyway, wagging their little tails and barking and yipping, one of them hopping up on the bench next to her and settling against the edge of her big fur coat.

                She’s sitting with her back to Dean, so he can’t really see what she’s doing, but he figures it’s none of his business. Shaking himself, he looks back down at his drawing of himself and Cas in the alleyway, finishing the shading on Castiel’s hands gripping Dean’s sides before flipping to a new page in the notebook. He only has his mechanical pencil with him, so he’s just doing black and white drawings for now, but they’re turning out surprisingly okay.

                He glances up at the squash lady with her back still turned, and taps his pencil against the fresh paper, studying her. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s drawing a picture of her. It’s not a very good picture, just of what she looks like now, sitting on that bench with her little dogs and her back to Dean, that big fur coat making her look a lot bulkier than she really is.

                It takes Dean about twenty minutes to finish his drawing of her, and she still hasn’t moved. It looks like she’s eating something. Maybe she came out here with her dogs for a late lunch or something.

                Dean chews on his lower lip as he thinks about what Castiel said about her when they were sitting on Dean’s roof. He suggested that Dean should talk to her. Dean wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the idea when Cas suggested it, but maybe Castiel is right. Maybe the squash lady is just a sweet old lady who wants someone to talk to. Maybe she’s lonely.

                Dean looks back down at his drawing of her for a second, and then sighs, closing his notebook. Hell, why not, right? He’s bored, and he still has another forty-five minutes before Castiel gets out of school and meets him here. Might as well kill some time.

                He stubs his cigarette out on the surface of the picnic table and flicks the butt aside, stuffing his notebook in his backpack and pushing himself to his feet.

                He doesn’t really register that he’s walking towards the squash lady until he’s halfway across the playground, his boots crunching over the frozen dirt. He feels a little bit nervous, because what is he supposed to say? Despite how often she and Dean see each other (or more to the point, how often she _spies_ on Dean from her windows) they don’t actually know each other. Maybe this lady is a recluse for a reason. Maybe she doesn’t want any company.

                But Dean keeps walking towards her anyway, despite his worries. If she doesn’t want him over there, she’ll tell him to fuck off anyway, and that will be that.

                He fiddles nervously with the straps of his backpack as he approaches her, and her little dogs start barking at him when he gets closer, running up to him and bouncing around his feet. He looks away from the back of the squash lady’s head and down at the dogs nipping at his boots, lifting one foot and then the other, making sure not to step on any of them. He almost loses his balance at one point when one of the dogs dives under his foot in a mad dash, but he manages to catch himself at the last second.

                The old lady whistles once, and all the dogs come running back to her, and when Dean looks up again, she’s looking back at Dean. She’s much older looking up close than she looks through the windows of her house. There are deep grooves in her cheeks like canyons, and her mouth is nothing but a pucker of red lipstick and wrinkles. Still though, her smile is sweet, and Dean can’t help but smile back a little.

                “Hi,” he greets awkwardly, and immediately feels stupid. Wow, he sounds like a five-year-old. To a lady as old as her, though, Dean probably _is_ a five-year-old.

                “Hello,” she smiles, looking at him curiously as Dean wanders around the edge of the bench she’s sitting on. Somehow, her voice sounds exactly like Dean imagined it would, breathy and ancient. The kind of voice that has a thousand stories to tell and not enough time left in the world to tell them.

                Dean just kind of stands there awkwardly, because he doesn’t actually know what he’s doing over here. He sort of acted on impulse and just walked over here.

                The squash lady looks down at the food she has in her hands, and of _course_ she’s eating pumpkin seeds and what looks like slices of zucchini bread. She holds up the bag of seeds. “Would you like to try some?” she asks, nodding her head towards the seat on the bench next to her.

                Dean huffs a little breath and shrugs. “Sure,” he replies, because he doesn’t know what else to say, and sits down next to her on the bench. Immediately, one of the little dogs, a black and brown pug with a purple bow tied around its neck, jumps up onto Dean’s lap, startling him. The squash lady laughs a musical laughter as the pug snorts and pants loudly in Dean’s lap for a moment and then burrows into his jean-clad legs, making itself comfortable. Dean’s arms hover awkwardly over the dog, not knowing what to do.

                “Feldspar loves people,” she says, “He likes you.” It takes Dean a moment to realize she’s talking about the dog.

                “Feldspar?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

                “That’s his name,” she replies without missing a beat, “You can pet him if you’d like. He doesn’t bite.”

                Dean looks back down at the wrinkly pile of fur in his lap and sort of chuckles a little before setting his hand down on top of the dog’s smooshed head. Feldspar immediately starts panting loudly and snorting again, wriggling around, and Dean grins. It’s actually kind of cute, for an ugly dog. It’s better than a cat anyway.

                “Here, try them,” the squash lady says, holding out a handful of pumpkin seeds, “They’re roasted every weekend.”

                Dean gives her a little smile and accepts the handful of seeds, holding them out of reach of Feldspar’s curious nose and popping a few into his mouth. He almost groans. They’re fucking _amazing_. This is the kind of organic hippie food that Sam likes, but Dean might have to start eating this shit more often. It’s perfectly salty, and almost tastes a little like a curly fry if Dean ignores the texture.

                “Thanks,” he says, and she hums, nodding and looking off down the street, chewing a bite of zucchini bread with what looks like almond butter on it.

                Dean pops more seeds into his mouth and looks down at the dog in his lap, keeping his legs together enough that the little pug isn’t going to slip through them and fall on the ground. Its buggy eyes are closed and it’s little tongue is sticking out a bit. When Dean pokes its tongue, the dog just snorts a little and falls asleep again, basking in the cold sunlight.

                “I’m Dean, by the way,” he says finally, looking back over at her. The squash lady smiles and her eyes twinkle when she looks at him again.

                “I know, dear,” she replies, “Your family has lived next door to me for years now.”

                Dean flushes a little. Right, that’s true. But it’s not like Dean knows any of his neighbors. Not that they all haven’t heard John shouting in the middle of the night at one point or another over the past ten years.

                “What brings you to Hautley’s Bend?” he asks conversationally. He’s not sure if it would be awkward to just sit here saying nothing. Something tells him that she wouldn’t mind the silence, but Dean knows he’d be a little uncomfortable. Mostly because he still doesn’t know why exactly he came over here. Maybe to find out why she likes to watch Dean so much.

                She smiles and looks down at her little dogs in various stages of sleeping and yipping at her feet. “I take them out three times a week in the afternoon,” she explains, “I have to walk them in intervals, there are so many of them. But they help me around the house, so I keep them around.”

                Dean’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “What do you mean they help you?”

                She pauses and gestures to a little fluffy white dog laying against her ankle. “Well, for example, Turnip cleans the bathrooms every Tuesday,” she replies, before gesturing to a Dachshund nipping at a pile of snow on the edge of the sidewalk, “And Oskar makes the bed every day. Feldspar even does the dishes on occasion.” She reaches over with one wrinkled, nail-polished hand and pats Feldspar’s head in Dean’s lap. The pug snorts again, but doesn’t open his eyes.

                Dean raises his eyebrows and stares at the squash lady. What the hell is she talking about? He doesn’t want to be rude, but what? “They do actual housework for you?” he asks, squinting at her in confusion.

                “Oh yes,” she confirms, “I don’t know how they do it, but somehow all the work gets done. They do it while I’m sleeping or while I’m away.”

                Dean just stares at her with his eyebrows raised for a long moment. Is she serious? When she looks back over at him and gives him a small smile, eating another bite of her zucchini bread, he realizes she _is_ indeed serious.

                _Wow_. Dean never even considered the fact that the squash lady may very well be off her rocker. This woman is nine kinds of crazy.

                He blinks a couple times and clears his throat. Well, she seems harmless anyway. And she’s very friendly at least. Dean wonders briefly if she even has any family.

                He decides to play along. Why not, right?

                He gets over his initial confusion and glances around, nodding towards a little Jack Russell sleeping on his back on the sidewalk. “What’s that one do?” he asks. The squash lady looks at Dean for a moment with a big smile on her face, almost like she’s surprised. Maybe she’s not used to people being nice to her or something. Dean supposes he can relate.

                Damn it, he actually kind of likes this woman.

                She looks down at the dog. “Oh, Potsdorf doesn’t help much at all around the house,” she says, clicking her tongue at the Jack Russell, “He’s the lazy one in the family. But he tells very good jokes on holidays.”

                Dean can’t help it. He laughs. It’s just one small bark of laughter, but it’s startled out of him. This lady can’t be for real.

                “I guess that’s good though,” Dean nods, pursing his lips, “At least he provides the comic relief.”

                She nods, smiling as she chews another bite of food. “That’s what Juliette says,” she agrees.

                Dean cocks his head, unable to stop smiling in his amusement. “Juliette?”

                She glances over. “My beagle,” she replies, “I’m sure you hear her barking sometimes. She’s at home right now, probably.”

                Dean strokes his blunt fingers over the top of the pug’s head in his lap. “What do you mean, probably?” he asks.

                The squash lady offers him some more pumpkin seeds, and Dean accepts with a grin. “Well, Juliette does the grocery shopping once a week. She might be at the store now.”

                Dean ponders that for a moment, pursing his lips and nodding for her benefit. He’s seen Andy from the store delivering groceries to the squash lady before. Maybe someone comes and cleans her house too, and she’s off her rocker enough to think that her dogs do it. It makes sense…that’s the only theory Dean can come up with to explain her thought process.

                He studies her for a moment. She’s obviously not completely there in the head, but she doesn’t seem to be having a hard time living alone. Dean wonders if maybe she has children, if they ever tried to put her in a nursing home, or help her in some way. Dean hardly sees her have any visitors. He actually feels kind of bad for her. Maybe she’s better off, thinking the way she does. Living alone as an eccentric old woman in a small town with a bunch of little dogs doesn’t sound half bad, if she finds a way to be happy on her own.

                It’s weird, talking to her now. Dean never imagined that she was crazy. But then again, he’s crazy too. Maybe that’s why she likes him. Maybe that’s why she watches him out her window. She can tell he’s crazy. Hell, everyone can tell Dean’s crazy. They just don’t know _how_ crazy until they see his arm and what he’s done to himself.

                He swallows, looking down at the dog in his lap for a second, thinking to himself. He wonders if he’ll end up like her, crazy and alone. At least if he ended up like her, he’d end up happy in his own way, right?

                “Can I ask you a question?” he asks her, and she turns her bright gray eyes on him again, studying his face with what looks almost like affection, like a grandmother would look at her grandson. Dean squirms a little uncomfortably, but doesn’t look away.

                “You just did,” she replies simply, and Dean pauses, hesitating before licking his dry lips, tasting salt from the pumpkin seeds on them. He huffs a little laugh at her sass, but keeps talking.

                “Why did you bake me that zucchini bread?” he asks, studying her face, “Thank you for that, by the way. It was really good, but…I’m just confused about the note you left with it.”

                The squash lady smiles a little and cocks her head to the side. “Oh Dean,” she says, “I thought it might make you feel better. You looked like you were having a hard time.”

                Dean swallows a little, but strangely, he doesn’t blush. He usually hates it when people see him like the squash lady has seen him, all open and raw and vulnerable, crying on his roof. But for some reason, it doesn’t bother him all that much that she’s seen him like that. Not now, after he’s been talking to her. She seems…almost _safe_. Like no one knows she exists except for him.

                He doesn’t know what to say, so he just sits there and stares at her as she stares back at him.

                After a couple minutes, her eyebrows press together, and she cocks her head again. “How are you doing?” she asks, and Dean is taken aback by the question. She asks him that like they’ve known each other for years. Like this _isn’t_ their first conversation. Like they get together for lunch every week and talk about their lives.

                She’s a stranger, but somehow, it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like Dean has known this woman all his life, and she feels safe and comforting, not unlike Missouri. Still, though, he can’t help but play dumb, just in case.

                “What do you mean?” he asks, swallowing hard, tasting pumpkin seeds and menthol on his tongue. She gives him a strange look, and then she drops her bag of pumpkin seeds in her lap, reaching over. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. He just watches as she takes his arm and carefully rolls up his sleeve.

                Dean is so shocked that he doesn’t even try to stop her. It’s not like she hasn’t seen him putting cigarettes out on his own skin anyway. She’s the only one who knows. And yet he’s still a little nervous as she exposes his mutilated arm to the cold afternoon sunlight.

                Dean looks down as she studies the burns on his arm. She doesn’t say anything for a couple minutes, and it’s long enough for Dean to start blushing in shame, but he doesn’t pull his arm away. It’s too late. It’s not like he can just hide it now. He’s still a little shocked that she just reached over and rolled up his sleeve, but he just waits for her to say something.

                Her hand is as soft as velvet where it’s cupping the back of Dean’s, small and frail compared to his, and ancient. Her touch is warm and gentle, and somehow, Dean finds it almost comforting, even though he’s a little uneasy right now, since this is the first time anyone’s seen his burned arm up close like this.

                After a minute, she hums a little, like she’s realizing something. Dean glances at her, but her eyes are still fixated on the burns. With her free hand, she points to a cluster of cigarette burns in the middle of his forearm. “You know, these ones sort of look like Marlon Brando,” she says, and Dean blinks for a second, too confused to understand what she means.

                “What?”

                She glances up at him and gives him a small smile. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Marlon Brando is,” she scolds gently, and Dean gawks at her for a second before swallowing and shaking himself a bit.

                “No, uh…yeah, I know who he is,” he replies uneasily. She nods towards his arm and he looks back down at the burns.

                “Look, you see? It looks just like him,” she states, tracing around the edge of the same cluster of burns again. Dean squints at the burns, a little confused, and it takes him a minute before he finally realizes what she’s talking about. He sees it. Marlon’s eyes, a couple of darker blotchy burns, and then a sort of knobby cluster that makes up his nose, another stripe of them forming his jaw line. Yeah, Dean can see it. Marlon Brando’s face on his arm, like a constellation in his burns. It’s a fucked up, twisted version of Marlon’s face, but it’s there.

                “I see it,” he says, huffing a little breath, and the squash lady laughs again, another musical little laugh, like the sound of birds in the steeple of a church, echoing through the rafters. Dean relaxes his arm in her touch, and she points out another cluster right on the sensitive inside of Dean’s wrist, over tendons and veins.

                “And look,” she says, “This one looks like Judy Garland.”

                Judy Garland. Dean wracks his brain for a moment. The name sounds familiar. The squash lady glances at him and sees the confusion on his face, laughing again.

                “ _The Wizard of Oz_ ,” she clarifies, and Dean pauses and then hums. Judy Garland was the hot chick from _The Wizard of Oz_. Dean squints at his arm, at the cluster of burns near his wrist, and he smiles a little.

                “I see her,” he replies, tracing over the sore burns with his blunt fingertips. His most recent burn still has a blister over it, a gross-looking yellow-white bubble just below his elbow. He tries to ignore it, because it looks disgusting. He hopes she doesn’t notice it, but she doesn’t even seem to be paying it any mind.

                Dean stares at the burns now, smiling just a little. He points out a cluster near the edge of the marring. “John Bonham,” he says, and this time the squash lady looks confused. He glances at her. “He was the drummer for Led Zeppelin.”

                She hums in understanding, smiling a little. “I don’t know what he looks like,” she admits.

                Dean shrugs. “That’s okay, not a lot of people do,” he replies, swallowing hard and looking back down at his arm. They spend another ten minutes just finding different faces in Dean’s burn marks. For some reason, despite how weird this afternoon is turning out, and how odd the squash lady is, it actually makes Dean feel a little better.

                His arm is disgusting. It’s mutilated and ruined and it’s going to look like this for the rest of his life. The scars will fade to white eventually (if Dean ever finds it in himself to stop putting cigarettes out on his arm) but they’ll still be there. He’s stuck with this. But for some reason, being here with the squash lady, looking for shapes in his burns like constellations in the stars makes him feel so much better. It makes him feel like maybe it isn’t so bad that he’s stuck with a fucked up arm for the rest of his life, because he has Marlon Brando there, and Judy Garland, and John Bonham, and even Yoda, which Dean laughs at when the squash lady points it out.

                When she finally looks up at him again, both of them chuckling at some of the crazy shapes they find in Dean’s burn marks, Dean is completely relaxed beside her. His stomach is still turning a little, but he doesn’t feel stupid, or like a freak, or like he’s weak anymore, even though she’s looking right at the signs of his weakness here on his arm.

                She pats the burns gently with her free hand, studying Dean’s face with her wise gray eyes. “You know, if you ever need someone to talk to, Juliette told me the fairies in my garden are very good listeners.”

                Dean cocks his head in confusion for a moment before he realizes she’s talking about the dozen or so fairy statues surrounding her squash garden. He swallows a little, nodding once because he doesn’t know what to say.

                “I would like you to keep one, if it will help you,” she goes on, “You can choose any one you like, and talk to her when you’re feeling sad.”

                Dean stares at her, and for some reason he feels a lump form in his throat. This is her asking Dean not to burn himself anymore, to get better. Dean has no idea why she even _cares_. They’ve never even spoken before today. But for some reason, the look in her eyes makes Dean feel like he’s worth at least a little bit. Like he’s worth at least a fairy statue. And maybe that’s enough.

                He swallows hard and thanks her, and she nods once and smiles, rolling his sleeve back down over his hurt arm. Dean watches the burns disappear under the sleeve of his flannel, and then barely has the mental capacity to say goodbye as the squash lady farewells him and stands, whistling for her dogs to come along. Feldspar jumps off of Dean’s lap and waddles after the squash lady and the four other little dogs, and Dean just stares after her as she walks away back towards her house.

                Even when she disappears around the corner with another little wave in his direction, he still stares at the spot where she disappeared. He realizes he was so taken by her that he didn’t even ask for her name. She’s still just the squash lady.

                For some reason, he feels completely torn open and raw, but not in a bad way. He feels like she just cut him open and looked inside him, and liked what she saw. Which is unusual. Dean’s been convinced for so long that what’s inside him is ugly and dark and horrible. But she looked his darkness right in the face just now and smiled and said it looked like Marlon Brando.

                Dean sits there for a long while just lost in thought, a tiny smile gracing his lips when he thinks about how strange it would be to talk to a fairy statue. Maybe he’ll take her up on the offer though and keep one. Who knows? Maybe Juliette the beagle is right. Maybe the fairy statues are good listeners.

                He sits there long enough for Castiel to arrive, and when he does, Dean tries to snap out of his thoughts, standing up and pulling Cas in by the back of his neck for a long kiss. It feels so good having Cas here, like it always does. They stand there kissing in the cold afternoon for a while until a car drives by and honks at them for their public display of affection.

                Dean pulls away and stares into Cas’s eyes for a long moment. The sun is reflecting off of silver clouds and making the blue of his eyes that much more vibrant, and Dean actually sighs a little when he sees it. Castiel is so beautiful, it’s actually a little ridiculous. Dean can’t really believe that Cas wants him, but he’s not about to argue that fact. He just twines his fingers with Castiel’s, and they head off down the street together towards Cas’s little Victorian house on Coolidge.

 

*       *       *

 

                The next two weeks go by in a blur. Everyone is busy preparing for mid-semester exams before spring break starts in the middle of March, and the stress is toxic inside the high school. The walls are choked with it, with tight-lipped students running around, trying to rush to catch up on studying they’ve neglected to do in the past couple months. Dean doesn’t really have to study for his exams. Not like he studies much anyway, but he usually passes them with a solid C-average. And he’s okay with that, really. He’s so stressed about everything else in his life, he doesn’t want to sit here and stress about exams too.

                He notices, however, that Castiel, Dorothy, Charlie, and even joke-master Gabriel, are all stressed out with their own studies, so at lunch one day he suggests they have a study night at Castiel’s. Cas agrees with a weary smile, and they all gather in Castiel’s living room that night to work on homework. Dean sits in the corner and draws more in his composition notebook for Cas instead of studying, occasionally stealing candy from the giant stash that Gabriel brought along “for encouragement”.

                The next night, everyone gathers at Castiel’s house again, this time with an Asian guy that they introduce as Kevin to Dean. Dean recognizes Kevin from that day in the stairwell last semester when Castiel defended him from Dean and his friends. Despite that, however, Kevin doesn’t seem to harbor any hard feelings over it, and he and Dean get along surprisingly well. Dean can see Castiel watching them banter back and forth like old friends out of the corner of his eye, and he sees Cas smile a little, like it pleases him that Dean gets along with his friends. Dean is relieved too – the last thing he needed was another Gabriel on his hands.

                Gabe has been a lot better lately though. Ever since their talk in the stairwell, Dean’s been trying harder to make Cas happy, doing _more_ for Castiel, and he thinks Gabe sees that and has finally accepted that Dean isn’t the enemy anymore.

                And Dean is actually _surprised_ at how much he’s changed in just a few short months. He finds himself jumping in and defending people at school whom he used to bully on the daily. He shoves Zach and Gordon away from Krissy one afternoon where they’re busy trying to stick gum in her hair (not that Krissy needs anyone to take care of her, but she’s had enough hardship to deal with ever since Dean heard that her dad died sometime last year). She shoots him a grateful look and a half-smile, which makes Dean feel shockingly good despite the insults Zach and Gordon throw his way.

                The very next day, Dean stops Alastair and Zach from beating up that freshman kid Barry Cook again, dragging Barry away and dusting him off, pointedly ignoring the livid stare Al is shooting his way. Barry thanks Dean, although he’s still a little skittish. Dean doesn’t blame him. He’s broken Barry’s glasses more times than he can count, and he’s also about three times the kid’s size. But Barry seems to be starting to realize that Dean’s not going to hurt him anymore.

                Everywhere Dean turns, he’s saving people that he used to hurt, over and over. It’s almost every day that he’s shoving his old friends away from his old victims. He even saved those two dorks from the school newspaper, Ed and Harry, from getting the shit beat out of them one afternoon in the parking lot. They strut away huffing like they saved themselves, but it still makes Dean feel good to help them. Almost like he’s _redeeming_ himself for the awful things he’s done to these people in the past.

                His old friends, unsurprisingly, are _pissed_. Gordon takes a few swings at Dean, and Zach starts picking on him too, asking him what the fuck happened to him, saying that Dean used to be cool, and now he’s just a pussy. It doesn’t really bother Dean, although it feels different being on the receiving end of a bunch of bullies for a change. However, all he has to do is level Zach and Gordon with one of his signature Dean Winchester death glares, and they back down instantly, grumbling to themselves and walking away.

                Nobody has forgotten that Dean Winchester is dangerous. He doesn’t have a reputation for nothing, after all. He’s lost count of the number of people he’s put in the hospital in the past. But he’s focusing all that anger and aggression on the people who deserve it now. And for the most part, Zach and Gordon are too afraid of him to mess with him all that much, unless they’re a safe distance away to throw an insult or two at him.

                The only person that is unaffected by Dean’s glare, and his threats, is Alastair. And that doesn’t surprise Dean, really. Nothing much gets under Al’s skin. He continues to stare at Dean with that blank look in his eyes, although sometimes he looks pissed off, and sometimes he looks amused. Dean’s never really sure what mood Alastair is in, and it can change in an instant. He still smiles at Dean sometimes, with his cracked teeth and his sharp, beady eyes, but Dean just tries to ignore it. He tries really fucking hard, and goes through a lot of cigarettes and unmarred skin on his arm in the process.

                Dean still hangs out with Crowley on occasion, but it’s not the same as hanging out with Cas. He likes Crowley, and Crowley has always been good to him, but it still brings Dean down a little to hang out with the Brit. And Crowley outright refuses to hang out with Dean at lunch while he’s sitting with the “low lives” in the cafeteria.

                Hanging out with Castiel and his friends is a breath of fresh air, though. Dean was miserable when he hung out with his old friends, chilling at The Docks or Ghost Town all the time like it was the only thing that mattered. But here, with Castiel’s friends, tucked into Cas’s living room with a marathon of horror movies playing on the TV, Dean feels good. He feels like his problems don’t matter for a while.

                He’s tucked against Cas’s chest, feet kicked up on the coffee table, laughing until tears run down his cheeks at the commentary Gabriel provides for different parts of the cheesy horror movies they’re watching. Kevin overanalyzes everything about the movies, saying certain things are scientifically inaccurate, or something someone said in a different language is wrong and that it differed from the subtitles. Charlie and Dorothy feed each other cherry bomb candies in the corner, and Dean just takes a moment to look around at all these wonderful people sitting in this room with him, who have welcomed him into their lives like he isn’t the biggest fucking asshole on the planet.

                He feels lucky. So fucking lucky. He doesn’t deserve all the kindness these people show him, doesn’t deserve how accepting they are, but he can’t help but feel happy. He relaxes back into Castiel’s chest, smiling as goose bumps prickle on his upper arm where Cas is trailing his fingertips lightly over Dean’s bare skin, and he smiles. Because these aren’t just Castiel’s friends anymore. They’re _his_ friends too, and that feels _good_.

                Dean makes sure that Sam has a couple more appointments with Cara Roberts too, and so far, Sam has been improving exponentially. He opens up more to Dean, although not a lot to be honest. But that’s okay, because Sam hasn’t cried or had any nightmares in the past couple weeks since he started reading Mary Winchester’s diaries, and his drawings remain blessedly gore-free. Dean even hangs some of Sam’s drawings up in his room, because they’re _amazing._ Sam draws family photos that never had a chance to be taken, of Mary, and a happy John, and Sam the age he is now, and Dean with a graduation cap on his head. Not that Dean expects to graduate with as many high honors ropes draped over his shoulders as Sam drew in the picture, but whatever. If high school were a sporting event, Dean would be lucky to get a participation trophy.

                But still, it’s nice to see Sam doing better. It’s a nightmare watching Sam suffer, even if Sam has expressed how much it sucks to see _Dean_ suffer too. Dean just snorts and tells him to stop being so dramatic, but secretly, he’s a lot more careful at hiding his burned arm around the house, and makes sure to restock Sam’s dwindling Band-Aid supply on the regular so Sam doesn’t ask where all the Band-Aids are going.

                Dean, to honor the deal he has with Sam, goes and sees Cara Roberts for one session. He actually likes her a lot. Cara is easy to talk to, and funny, and she isn’t like a normal therapist who won’t share anything personal about herself. She complains about her divorce, and how she’s getting split ends, and in turn, Dean opens up a little more about how he feels about Cas, and how he wants to make sure Sam is okay for good. Dean can tell that Cara has heard things about him, probably from more people than just Castiel. He’s sure that people he used to bully have come in here at one point or another in the past and complained about how much of a dick Dean is to them. But Dean tells Cara that he’s trying to be better, and he’s helping people he used to hurt, and she seems fully in support of that decision.

                And damn it, Dean just might be sold on seeing Cara more than once or twice. Castiel was right. She’s awesome, and easy to talk to, and Dean leaves the session with a smile on his face and relief sitting light in his chest. He doesn’t burn himself that day.

                One Friday night during the couple weeks, he brings Sam over to Castiel’s house for dinner. Sam and Anna hang out and have a nerd fest over some crappy documentary on exorcisms on the History Channel in the living room, and Dean and Castiel make out inconspicuously in the kitchen while they cook dinner for their siblings. All four of them sit down to a nice meal of glazed Mongolian beef skewers that Dean is actually really fucking proud of, because he usually doesn’t have the resources to put his cooking skills to the test all that often.

                It feels amazing to sit here with Cas, and Sam, and Anna at the table in Castiel’s kitchen, which is warm for once since Kevin got a chance to temporarily fix the heater again. It feels like family. Dean feels like Castiel and Anna are his family. Maybe it’s true that you don’t have to be related by blood to be family. Dean thinks to himself that he got dealt a pretty shit card in terms of blood-related family, but he’s found other family. In the Singer’s, in Missouri, in his new little friend group at school, and with Castiel Novak.

                He tries to dial back how happy he feels lately about that, despite his nagging mental issues and the _existence_ of Alastair. He tries not to let himself get _too_ happy. Because whenever Dean has allowed himself to hope in the past, whenever Dean has let his mind convince itself that _maybe this time_ things will be different, _maybe this time_ it’s for real, something has happened to fuck it all up.

                Dean can’t stop himself from worrying, despite his more frequent smiles as of late, and his overwhelming affection for Castiel and the new friends around him, and the satisfying feeling of defending people from bullies at school. He can’t stop himself from fearing that something is going to happen to fuck all this up for him. Something is going to happen to take this new happiness away. Like the universe taking a giant piss on his life, reminding him that he’s Dean fucking Winchester, and he’s not _meant_ to be as happy as he feels right now.

 

*       *       *

 

                It’s almost the end of February when Castiel is sitting in the library studying with Kevin during their mutual free hour at school. He’s been studying hard lately, maybe too hard for his own good, but it’ll be worth it when he gets good grades on his midterms in a couple of weeks.

                He and Kevin are comparing notes on different problems for their economics class, solving them and seeing if they get the same answer. Castiel has already taken this class before, and Kevin is a genius, so neither of them are struggling too much with it, but it doesn’t hurt to review. They’ll probably have another few study nights at Castiel’s house with everyone in the next couple weeks before their exams.

                Castiel thinks longingly of spring break as he reads about supply and demand percentages throughout the twentieth century. He doesn’t look up when he hears the door swoosh open with a breathy sound in the silence of the library across the room, too engrossed in his work and daydreaming.

                It’s only when he smells the faint lingering scent of cigarette smoke that a small smile curls his lips and he glances up. Dean steps up to the table Kevin and Castiel are sitting at, and Castiel’s smile fades the second he sees the distraught expression on Dean’s face.

                “Dean, you alright man?” Kevin asks, keeping his voice low so the librarian doesn’t yell at them. Dean sighs heavily, looking like he’s about ready to pull his hair out, and drops down into the chair next to Castiel, tossing a sheet of paper on the table. Castiel studies Dean’s face for a moment, and then leans over, picking up the paper and reading it.

                It’s a progress report for Dean’s grades. No one really knows what grades they have in their classes until mid-semester reports are sent out via school emails. Castiel squints at it and then glances at Dean.

                “How did you get this?” he asks curiously as Kevin plucks the paper out of Cas’s hands and scans it with his eyes, “Nobody has access to their grades until a couple weeks from now.”

                Dean buries his face in his hands wearily, shaking his head. “I talked Cara into looking up my grades for me. She printed it off,” he replies, “Cas, man, I fucked up.”

                “What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, reaching over and taking Dean’s hand, pulling it away from his face so that he can see Dean’s eyes. Dean looks over at him, one hand still plastered across his face.

                Dean nods his head towards the paper in Kevin’s hands. “Look at my grades, Cas,” he says, and Castiel reaches out, taking the progress report back from Kevin and looking at each letter grade Dean has for his seven classes.

**D, D, F, F, B, D, F**.

                Castiel grimaces, turning sympathetic eyes on Dean, parting his lips to say something. But Dean beats him to it.

                “I’m so screwed, man,” he groans, too loudly, and the librarian shushes him. He ignores her. “Cara says if I don’t get my grades up, I’m not gonna graduate in May. I’m fucked!”

                Castiel rubs his thumb comfortingly over Dean’s scarred knuckles, looking back down at the progress report. “Well, at least you have a B in math.”

                Dean snorts. “Yeah, so I can calculate the tax on a happy meal in my head when I’m working at McDonald’s for the rest of my life,” he groans.

                Castiel shakes his head, dropping the report on the table and taking Dean’s other hand in his. “Dean, you’ll be fine. You’ll catch up. We still have a couple months before the end of school. You have time to bring your grades up.”

                Dean shakes his head, worrying at his lip. “I’m _so_ behind, Cas,” he says, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

                Kevin leans forward. “Dude, snap out of it,” he says, wadding up Dean’s progress report and throwing it at Dean’s head. It bounces off and lands somewhere on the floor, and Dean blinks, looking over at Kevin.

                “If I fail my midterms, there’s no way I’ll have enough of a good score average to bring up my final grades to passing,” Dean explains, slipping out of his chair and picking up his crumpled progress report from the floor before sitting back down.

                “So then pass the midterms,” Kevin says, “Let us help you.”

                Dean glances at Cas, and then looks back at Kevin. “How?”

                Kevin shrugs. “Well, if I have to look at any more econ statistics, I’m gonna gouge my eyes out,” he replies, “So let me tutor you.”

                Dean raises his eyebrows. “You’d do that?”

                Kevin lifts one shoulder, closing his economics book. “Sure, friends help friends, right?”

                Castiel feels a bit of warmth bloom in his chest. It makes him happy to see Dean and Kevin getting along so well when they haven’t known each other for very long. Kevin is a junior still, so he can’t come and have senior lunch with the rest of them, but it’s crazy to him how quickly he and Dean have hit it off.

                Dean glances over at Cas in surprise, like it’s just as amazing to him how willing Kevin is to help. When he looks back at Kevin, a small smile graces his lips. “Thanks dude,” he says, and Kevin gives a little bow.

                “You got a notebook?” he asks Dean, and Dean pauses for another moment, looking like he’s trying to pull himself together from his miniature panic attack just a minute ago. He clears his throat and nods, sighing as he pulls his backpack off and digs through it. He pulls out a composition notebook with some doodles on the front, and then stuffs it away quickly, half-glancing at Cas, and pulling out a different notebook from the bag. He whips out a mechanical pencil too.

                Castiel leans back and lets Kevin lead Dean through creating a study schedule for the next two weeks before midterms. Kevin asks Dean what his classes are, and then writes out a list of topics for each class that Dean needs to have somewhat of an understanding of before his exams. Castiel smiles a little to himself because Dean looks equal parts relieved, yet overwhelmed, because he’s getting help from Kevin, but he’s got _a lot_ he has to do in the next two weeks if he wants to catch up. And then even more to do after that for the rest of the semester before graduation.

                Kevin gives Dean tips on ways he can boost his grades a bit more, like asking his teachers for extra credit assignments, or asking whether he can retake certain tests he failed or didn’t show up for. Kevin scolds Dean and says he _has_ to show up for _every_ class from now on, and stop ditching school. Dean grumbles but nods, scratching the top of his head, and obeying when Kevin tells him to pull out his biology text book to start on chapter 7, the first chapter they covered in that class this semester (which Dean basically slept through).

                Castiel only pays attention halfway to his economics studying for the rest of the free hour, mostly sneaking little glances over as Kevin walks Dean through his biology. Castiel smiles fondly at how well Dean keeps up with the subject material. Dean is smart, _very_ smart. He doesn’t give himself enough credit. Most students new to biology would be struggling to keep up with everything Kevin is explaining right now, but Dean is absorbing details and information like a computer. In the last half an hour of their free period, Dean has memorized all the parts of both a plant and animal cell, and knows not only the names, but the functions of each part. He still has a lot more to go, but Castiel can’t understand what Dean was so worried about to begin with, when he learns so fast and is smart enough to keep up with Kevin’s genius-level brain.

                At one point, Krissy Chambers walks by with a younger boy wearing thick-framed glasses. Dean glances up at them as they pass, and they each give Dean a small wave and a smile. The boy seems a little skittish, but Dean still smiles and nods at them in return. Castiel has noticed Dean helping a lot of people lately. He feels a swell of pride in his chest. People can change. Dean has changed.

                When the bell rings signaling the end of the period, Kevin makes Dean promise not to skip class anymore, and to go talk to all his teachers, and Dean agrees with a grumble, not too happy about the sudden workload he has to take on. Kevin grins.

                “God, I feel powerful right now. I feel like my mother,” he says with satisfaction, “I can see why she likes ordering people around like this.”

                Castiel chuckles. “Thank you Kevin,” he says, and Kevin nods, bumping fists with Cas first, and then Dean. Castiel still hovers awkwardly for a moment, not sure what the point of bumping fists like this is, but Kevin just rolls his eyes and slings his backpack over his shoulder, turning and heading out the back door of the library.

                Castiel reaches down and takes Dean’s hand, twining their fingers together, and Dean looks over at him with tired but more relaxed eyes. Castiel lifts his hand up to his mouth and kisses Dean’s knuckles. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much,” he says, and Dean sighs and smiles, leaning in and giving Castiel a quick, sideways kiss on the lips.

                “Will you still like me even if I'm stuck working at a fast food restaurant for the rest of my life?” he asks as they push their way out of the library and into the crowded hallway.

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, pulling Dean to a stop and leaning in, giving him a deeper kiss that earns them a couple catcalls. When he pulls away, he looks earnestly into Dean’s eyes. “I’d still like you even if you robbed banks to make a living,” he promises, and Dean laughs.

                “I just can’t get rid of you, can I?” he says, and Castiel shakes his head.

                “That’s not happening,” he replies, squeezing Dean’s hand tighter.

                As they turn around to head down the hall, both of them suddenly run smack into someone standing in their way. Castiel looks up and almost takes a swing when he sees Alastair standing there, no more than six inches away. Dean’s hand tightens painfully around Castiel’s, and when Cas glances at him, Dean is glaring daggers, his jaw tightly locked.

                “Oh, I’m sorry,” Alastair hisses, giving them a sharp grin and pivoting on one foot to step out of their way, “Didn’t mean to block your path, gentlemen.”

                Castiel and Dean both stare at him for a moment, and Dean’s hand is shaking minutely where it’s holding Cas’s. His mood changed in the blink of an eye the second they saw Alastair, and for that, Castiel kind of wants to punch Al across the face. But he doesn’t. He resists the urge.

                Tearing his eyes away from Alastair’s face, Castiel pulls Dean along, walking away down the crowded hallway and leaving Al there standing outside the library doors, staring after them.

                “Have a nice day, now,” Al calls after them, and Cas can hear him chuckling to himself, a laugh that sounds like steam whistling out of a rusty tea kettle.

                Dean and Cas turn around the corner at the end of the hall, and Castiel hears Dean growl low and deep in his throat beside him.

                “Would you still like me even if I murdered someone?” Dean asks, his voice tight, barely-controlled anger and some other emotion that Castiel can’t quite place locking up his throat.

                Castiel glances over at Dean, and rubs his thumb over Dean’s knuckles again soothingly. “If you’re speaking about Alastair, then I think I would like you even more,” Cas replies, and Dean looks over at him, the anger seeping away just a bit from his eyes. He gives Castiel a strained smile, and leans in, kissing him one more time, just a peck.

                “See you at lunch?” he asks, and Castiel nods.

                “I’ll be there.”

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel has Dean sleep over that night, mostly because they haven’t had a lot of time to spend alone together lately, and because Castiel misses having Dean there to warm the bed at night. They kiss for a while, lazily, and both of them consider doing more, but then decide against it. It’s the middle of the week, and they’re both too tired. It’s nice to just be together, even if they don’t fool around.

                Castiel tucks himself behind Dean in his bed, winding his arms around Dean’s blessedly bare torso, feeling the smooth bumps of his scars. He can’t help but run his fingers over the scars, and Dean tenses at first before relaxing again, like he’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t actually have to hide himself from Castiel anymore. Which makes Cas extraordinarily happy. He buries his face in the side of Dean’s neck, stroking his scars and breathing in the sweet smell of his bare skin.

                “Hey Cas?” Dean asks, after they’ve laid there for a while, both of them dancing on the edge of sleep.

                “Hm?”

                Dean hesitates for a moment, shifting his arms just a little. Castiel feels the rough material of the Ace bandage wound around Dean’s forearm brush against the back of his hand.

                “Do you know who Marlon Brando is?” Dean asks, and Castiel’s forehead crinkles in confusion.

                “The actor?” he asks, and Dean nods.

                “Do you think he’s hot?”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh. “Is this a test?”

                Dean shrugs. “No, just a question.”

                Castiel kisses the side of Dean’s neck briefly, right over the spot where he left the huge bruise a couple weeks ago when they had sex on the kitchen counter. “He’s attractive,” Castiel confirms, “Not as much as you, but he’s attractive.”

                Dean snorts. “You’re such a suck up,” he says, burrowing back into Cas’s chest more and curling up under the blankets. Cas wraps his arms tighter around Dean’s hard body and greedily soaks up his warmth.

                Neither of them says anything more. They have school in the morning, and they’re both exhausted, so they’re going to sleep early. It’s not even ten at night, but the moon is high and they both have busy weeks ahead, with Dean being tutored by Kevin and Castiel studying for his own exams.

                He closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of Dean in front of him, that lingering scent of cigarettes and citrus, with a deeper woody taste like motor oil and pine forests and leather. It’s the most comforting smell Castiel has ever smelled.

                He feels content. For now, anyway, he feels content. Dean has seemed so much happier lately. Castiel doesn’t think it’s an act. He could tell when Dean was faking it, but lately it’s seemed genuine, Dean’s laughter and smiles and happiness. That deep angry furrow and signature Dean Winchester scowl haven’t been gracing Dean’s features all that often anymore. The scowl isn’t gone, of course – Dean wouldn’t be _Dean_ without his angry face – but Cas doesn’t see it all that often anymore.

                Maybe things are getting better. Maybe _Dean_ is getting better. He did say he was going to see Cara for a few counseling sessions. Maybe she’s helping him. Maybe saving Dean doesn’t rest entirely on Castiel’s shoulders.

                He breathes in that comforting smell of this boy in his arms again, trying desperately to enjoy the relief he feels. But underneath it, there’s a bit of worry. Like not everything is completely okay. He wants to believe that Dean is getting better, and that everyone and everything is alright, but Cas just can’t. He just…can’t.

                Gritting his teeth in annoyance at his paranoia, he squeezes his eyes shut and prays again. Prays for relief. Prays that, for once in his life, things will just be…alright.


	29. We Are All Made Of Stars

                John comes home (unsurprisingly) drunk again on Thursday afternoon while Dean and Sam are hanging out in Sammy’s room. Sam is sifting through some of the boxes from John’s closet, looking for records and information about where Mary was born and about her early childhood for his lineage project. Dean is sprawled out on Sam’s bed sketching in the notebook for Cas, while simultaneously keeping a close eye on Sam’s every move, just in case he gets triggered again and has a breakdown. Sam’s been doing better lately, sure, but Dean doesn’t want to let his guard down. Cara has been helping a lot, but you can never be too sure.

                They both look up as the front door crashes open and John’s heavy footsteps clomp inside. Dean grits his teeth. That’s the sound of his father’s steel toed boots. They’re just about Dean’s least favorite item that John owns, as they’ve been responsible for more than one broken rib on both himself and Sammy.

                When John calls out in a slurred voice for Dean, he and Sam exchange a weary glance. Their father’s tone is edging on angry already. There’s no way this is ending without a fight.

                Dean quickly slides off Sam’s bed, walking quietly over to the door and shutting it softly, turning the handle first so that the latch doesn’t click. He locks it as he hears those heavy steel toed boots clomping down the hallway. When Dean turns around again, Sammy is already at the window, pushing it open. Dean doesn’t even have to tell him to anymore. Dean grabs Cas’s notebook and tucks it under his arm to bring with him. Like always, he jumps out the window first, and then turns and helps lift Sammy out after him, just as they hear Sam’s bedroom doorknob rattling and John banging on the other side.

                The squash lady is at her window watching when Dean and Sam start jogging down the street, and Dean gives her a little shrug, as if to say _such is life_ , and then catches up with Sammy. Since it’s still light out, they run until they get to the end of the street and out of sight of their house before slowing to a walk. Without a word, Sam climbs onto Dean’s shoulders and Dean carries him like that to Hautley’s Bend.

                They both grimace when they see a Girl Scout troop standing in front of the park with signs for a bake sale and a table set up with cookies and pastries on it. Dean’s stomach grumbles unhappily but his wallet is back at the house. He looks up at Sam on his shoulders, and Sam just shakes his head. Neither of them wants to hang out at Hautley’s Bend with a bunch of screaming little spoiled girls.

                Sam is the one who suggests they go to Bobby’s shop. Castiel is a working until seven tonight, and Bobby might have some food in the mini fridge he keeps in the back room of the store. Dean, of course, is completely on board with that plan. Anything involving Castiel is an automatic yes in his book.

                It takes about a half an hour to walk all the way from Hautley’s Bend to 2nd Avenue where Bobby’s shop is, and by the time Dean lifts Sammy off his shoulders and they push their way through the door to the shop, their fingers and noses are numb from the bite of the February afternoon, and Dean blows hot air into his fists to warm his hands a little.

                Castiel is at the counter making what looks like an origami parrot out of cool rainbow paper, and he glances up when Dean and Sam walk up, looking a bit surprised to see them here, but happy nonetheless. Dean leans over the counter and plants a huge kiss right on his lips while Sam rolls his eyes and pushes through the Japanese curtain to the back where Bobby is sitting at his desk sorting through orders. Dean slips back there really quick to steal a soda and a couple string cheeses from Bobby’s mini fridge, grinning when Bobby calls him a “thieving idjit”, and then goes back out and pulls up a stool next to Cas, plopping down and cracking his Coke open, setting Cas's notebook aside inconspicuously.

                “Special order, or you just feeling inspired?” Dean asks, nodding towards the origami parrot in Castiel’s hands. Cas glances at him with a small smile that’s all in his blue eyes.

                “Inspired,” he replies, “Bobby found a stack of this rainbow paper while going through some of Jo’s old art supplies in their basement. She didn’t want it, so he gave it to me.”

                Dean hums in understanding as he takes a long swig of Coke, immediately regretting it as the carbonation burns his throat unpleasantly. Castiel finishes folding the tail of the parrot just right and then sets it aside, looking over at Dean.

                “Were you bored at home?” Cas asks, eyes darting to Dean’s lips as Dean licks a drop of Coke away, “I’m certain that watching me make origami is not a very interesting way to spend your afternoon.”

                Dean huffs a little laugh, tearing open one of the string cheeses. “We were gonna go to the park, but there were Girl Scouts there trying to hustle us out of our hard earned cash with cookies. So we came here.”

                Castiel chuckles. “Yes, I saw them on the way here,” he nods, reaching up and using his thumb to wipe a piece of cheese off of Dean’s bottom lip. Dean grins and grabs Cas’s hand before he can withdraw it, sucking Cas’s thumb into his mouth to lick away the piece of cheese. Castiel’s eyes darken marginally, but he blushes and glances towards the back where Sam and Bobby are chatting, and quickly pulls his thumb out of Dean’s mouth. Dean chuckles darkly.

                “One of these days, you’re going to get me fired,” Castiel scolds quietly, but Dean doesn’t miss the way those blue eyes dart to his lips again, or the way Castiel shifts slightly in his seat. He reaches down and picks up another piece of rainbow paper, starting in on another parrot.

                Dean settles back and watches Castiel’s nimble fingers work. “That Bela chick is having another party in Johnson tomorrow night,” he says, taking another swig of Coke.

                Cas nods. “Gabriel told me about it earlier. I believe he’s in the process of telling Charlie and Dorothy too.”

                Dean pops another rope of string cheese in his mouth. “You’re going, right?” he asks, voice muffled by his food.

                Castiel smiles a little, glancing over at him. “Do I have a choice?”

                Dean snorts. “No,” he replies, “I’m dragging you there one way or another.”

                Cas rolls his eyes and sighs. “You do remember what happened the last time we were at Bela Talbot’s party, don’t you?”

                Dean flushes red a little, but chuckles and leans in. “All the more reason to go,” he says, placing a light kiss to the corner of Castiel’s mouth, “Maybe it’ll turn into a tradition.”

                Cas huffs a laugh. “What? Blowjobs in coat closets?” he asks, keeping his voice low so Sam and Bobby don’t hear.

                Dean grins seductively. “Now that sounds like a tradition I can get behind.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes again and takes Dean’s Coke from him, stealing a small sip. “I was considering telling everyone to just meet at my house tomorrow night so we can carpool to Johnson, but we don’t have a ride. Gabriel’s older brother Michael is out of town.”

                Dean purses his lips and shrugs. “I could probably jack the Impala for the night, if everyone’s cool with that.”

                Cas looks over at him, cocking his head. “Are you sure?” he asks, “I don’t want you to get in trouble with your father.”

                Dean rolls his eyes, stealing his Coke back from Castiel and taking another swig. “If he doesn’t get mad at me for that, he’ll get mad at me for something else anyway. He’s always mad about something, so I may as well give him a reason.”

                Castiel studies Dean’s face with a look of concern. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea Dean,” he says, and Dean doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s eyes sweep over the nearly-faded bruise on Dean’s jaw from the last fight with John. Dean flushes and looks away. Funny, for a moment there it was almost like Castiel _knew_ what a scumbag John is.

                “It’s fine,” Dean replies, clearing his throat and giving Cas a little grin, “Besides, I wanna drive my baby on the highway again. I hardly get the chance.”

                The concern on Cas’s face still doesn’t fade away, so Dean leans in and kisses it away as best he can before reaching for one of the rainbow sheets of paper as a distraction. “I’ll text everybody later and let them know the plan,” he says, as he watches Castiel’s hands and copies his movements, folding up his own origami parrot.

                Cas sighs a little, but doesn’t argue any further, stealing another sip of Dean’s Coke.

                They sit there in mostly silence for a while, just folding up a dozen or so parrots and then stringing them onto wires for the mobile. By the time Bobby and Sam emerge from behind the curtain, Dean and Cas have unconsciously gravitated towards each other to the point where they’re pressed together from knee to shoulder and their ankles are hooked under the counter, Dean’s foot absently toying with Castiel’s.

                Neither Bobby nor Sam fail to comment on it, and Dean and Cas both blush furiously, slowly pulling apart. A chuckling Bobby puts Sam to work dusting off shelves, since Sam is bored, and Dean and Cas finish up the mobile quickly before carrying it to the middle of the store between a couple shelves of yarn and garden statues. Dean eyes some of the fairy statues on the shelf and wonders absently if the squash lady bought some of hers here.

                Castiel climbs up on a wobbly stool to hang the parrot mobile from a hook on the ceiling, and Dean is _certain_ that Cas must have fallen off this stool at one point or another with how unsteady it is. He reaches up and places his hands on Castiel’s sides to keep him balanced, and then when Cas reaches up to hang the mobile, the trim lines of his body stretching taut, Dean can’t resist but to move his hands to Castiel’s ass. Cas jumps and glares down at Dean, but Dean just grins and gives one cheek a firm squeeze, nearly making Castiel topple off the stool.

                He manages to get the mobile onto the hook after a couple minutes of awkwardly flailing, and all the while Dean enjoys the feeling of Castiel’s firm ass under his hands while at the same time keeping his steady. When Cas finally climbs down, he’s smiling bashfully and he rolls his eyes, punching Dean’s shoulder.

                “You almost made me break my neck,” he scolds breathlessly, and Dean just chuckles, pulling him in for a kiss.

                “What’d I say about macking in my shop?” Bobby demands as he comes around the corner of the yarn shelf, folding his arms across his chest and peering at them from under the brim of his ratty hat. They break apart and look over at him, but Bobby doesn’t look mad. He has a little twinkle in his eye like he’s trying not to laugh, and Dean gives him a saucy grin.

                “When have you ever known me to follow any rules Uncle Bobby?” he points out, inconspicuously sliding his hand over Cas’s ass one more time as he pulls away. Cas jumps a little, and Dean shoots him a wink before walking past Bobby and around to the front windows of the store where Sam is on his toes trying to reach a high display shelf.

                Dean scoops his brother up under the armpits and lifts him high enough to where Sam can reach where he’s trying to dust. A minute or so later, when Castiel walks by, he grabs one of Dean’s ass cheeks and squeezes hard through his jeans while Dean’s hands are occupied holding Sammy up. Dean jumps and nearly drops Sam, and Castiel chuckles rebelliously, shuffling away before Dean can retaliate.

                The rest of Cas’s shift goes by fairly quickly with all three of them doing random tasks around the shop for Bobby. A few customers come in that Castiel has to break away and help out, and Dean makes faces at him from behind shelves to try and get Cas to laugh while talking professionally with a customer, but Cas remains stoic and calm, never breaking once, and Bobby comes up behind Dean to smack him on the back of the head for trying to embarrass Castiel.  

                When seven rolls around, Bobby decides to close the shop an hour early since they made an unusually good amount in sales today, thanks to a wealthy man passing through town who came in and bought gifts for about a dozen different people earlier in the day. Bobby offers to give Castiel a ride home so he doesn’t have to ride his bike in the cold, and they all squeeze into Bobby’s truck for the ride, cranking up the heat to full blast.

                Dean walks Cas to his front door and gives him a kiss goodbye, cutting it short when Bobby taps his horn to signal for Dean to hurry it along. Dean rolls his eyes and gives Cas one more kiss before walking back to Bobby’s truck.

                They decide to go over to the Singer’s for the night. All it takes is one meaningful look from Dean for Bobby to know that John wasn’t in the best condition tonight, and he nods in understanding, not even bothering to turn down their street.

                Ellen makes turkey pot roast for dinner, and Dean practically moans when he takes the first bite. It melts in his mouth like butter, and almost makes up for the fact that everyone is making fun of him for the entire meal. Bobby teases that Dean is “going soft”, and proceeds to dramatize how cute he was with Castiel all afternoon at the shop and how he insisted on walking Cas to his door when they dropped him off. Dean just rolls his eyes and tells them to keep laughing while he stuffs himself with more turkey.

                Jo brings up the fact that Castiel never shuts up about Dean in the art history class they share, and Dean hides his smile behind his glass of milk. Even if it’s annoying being teased about his relationship with Cas, he still feels warm inside. After they’ve stuffed themselves full of food and cleared their own dishes (Ellen insists that they all clean up after themselves in this house), Dean and Sam each take a shower and then curl up in the living room with the Singer’s to watch _The Outlaw Josie Wales_. Dean is perfectly content watching anything with Clint Eastwood, so he settles in with a mug of hot cider that Ellen makes.

                Sam falls asleep with his head in Jo’s lap halfway through the movie, and Dean inconspicuously pulls out Cas’s notebook and steals a pen from the table next to the couch, sketching a picture of Sam and Jo while the movie plays. Bobby eyes him curiously, but doesn’t comment on the fact that Dean is drawing instead of watching the movie. He glances at Ellen to make sure she’s asleep in her chair, and then winks at Dean and sneaks a splash of whiskey into Dean’s cider. Dean grins at him in thanks and takes a sip, gritting his teeth at the bitter flavor.

                He flips to a new page in his notebook and draws a picture of his family for Castiel. Not his blood family, but his _real_ family. Sammy sitting on his shoulders, and Bobby, and Ellen, and Jo. He draws a frame around it to make it look like a Christmas card, and then stares at it for a while until the credits on the movie roll.

                He carries Sam to bed in the guest bedroom of the Singer’s house, through the doorway with the taxidermy stag head mounted above it. With whiskey sitting warm in his stomach, and silence in the corners of the house, no dishes breaking, or shouting, or banging around, Dean falls asleep in mere minutes.

 

*       *       *

 

                On Friday, the night of Bela’s party, Dean waits until John passes out in his room before donning his best party clothes and stealing the Impala out of the garage. He drives Sammy to Bobby’s first. Dean knows he’s probably going to get in trouble for stealing the car, so he doesn’t want Sam to be in the line of fire. He can spend the night at the Singer’s tonight while Dean is in Johnson.

                When Dean gets to Castiel’s house no more than ten minutes later, he can see Charlie and Dorothy through the front window. Charlie is in a skin tight red cocktail dress with a pair of devil horns on her head. Dorothy is dressed similarly, but with a white dress and angel wings. Dean cocks his head and chuckles a little when he sees them, crossing over the frozen front lawn and simply walking into the house without knocking. Cas is no doubt in his room changing or something right now and there’s music playing, so no one will hear him knock.

                He hears Gabriel’s loud voice blathering about something in the kitchen, and a moment later, Kevin replies, but Dean turns into the living room where Charlie and Dorothy are first. They both cheer over the crappy music playing out of someone’s iPod speakers and throw their arms around Dean.

                “Where’s your costume?” Charlie asks, grinning and fiddling with one of Dorothy’s angel wings.

                “I didn’t know we were supposed to wear one,” Dean replies, stepping back and eyeing them both, “I gotta say Charlie, you are one handsome devil.”

                Charlie rolls her eyes and punches him, and Dorothy raises an eyebrow. “Hey, hands off the merchandise, she’s taken,” she snorts, and Dean grins at her, leaning in and planting a wet kiss on Dorothy’s cheek. She wipes at her face in fake disgust and rolls her eyes at Dean.

                “It’s a costume party, doofus,” Charlie says, “You didn’t bring anything?”

                “Never fear!” Gabriel exclaims from behind them, seemingly appearing out of nowhere with Kevin in tow and holding up a couple big bags of what looks like clothing, “I come bearing gifts!”

                Dean raises an eyebrow and looks back at Charlie and Dorothy, studying their costumes. “You didn’t remember either, did you?” he accuses, “Gabe brought those outfits for you.”

                Charlie grins mischievously at the same time as Dorothy gestures to herself. “Do you think I’d ever dress this way voluntarily?” she asks, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “Dean-O!” Gabe says from behind him, stepping forward and dumping out the bags on the floor, “You have a few choices here. Superman, a Roman, a tiger, the green Teletubby, or a porn star. Take your pick.”

                Dean looks down at all the costumes strewn out across the floor, snorting and toeing the Teletubby costume away. “That’s not happening,” he says, before reaching down and scooping up a pile of chains and leather, “What’s this for?”

                Gabe reaches out and plucks the chains out of Dean’s hand. “That’s for the porn star. But don’t pick that one. I’m wearing it.”

                Dean snorts. “You’re going as a leather daddy?”

                Gabe purses his lips, and then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I like that, I’m definitely doing that.”

                Dean laughs. “Do you have a flogger?”

                Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Just pick a damn costume, hoss,” he says, reaching down and sifting through the clothes on the floor, picking out random bits of leather and metal as he goes. Dean has no idea how Gabriel is going to make all those bits and pieces into something that’s going to cover all _his_ bits and pieces, but he just rolls his eyes, bending down and plucking up a circlet made of shiny gold leaves and little green jewels.

                Charlie gasps and takes it from him, turning Dean around and placing the circlet on his head. “Oh my gosh, you look beautiful!” she exclaims, “You’re definitely going as the Roman!”

                Dean grimaces and fiddles with the circlet, but Charlie slaps his hands away and dives down, digging through the costumes for the rest of the Roman get up.

                “Where’s Cas?” Dean asks, nearly losing his balance as Charlie spins him around again to hold up a toga-looking thing to Dean’s chest.

                “Upstairs showering,” Kevin replies, bending down and scooping up the tiger costume, “He’s probably done by now if you wanna go up and check on him. Gabe made him pick the cowboy costume.”

                Dean’s eyes widen as he looks over at Kevin, and Gabriel guffaws. “ _Somebody_ likes the sound of that,” he teases, and Dean flushes red, ducking his head back down.

                Charlie scoops up the rest of the Roman costume and piles it into Dean’s arms, giving him a shove towards the stairs. “We have to leave in like fifteen minutes, so no funny business up there you two,” she says with a raised eyebrow, and Dean rolls his eyes, turning and trudging towards the stairs as the four of them start dancing to a downright _horrible_ pop song that starts playing on the iPod in the living room.

                Dean takes the stairs two at a time, hugging the bundle of clothes to his chest and heading down the hall towards Cas’s room. Castiel comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist before Dean can knock on his bedroom door, hair damp from his shower and sticking up everywhere. He looks up and smiles when he sees Dean, and Dean can’t help but rake his eyes over Castiel’s bare torso for a moment, little water droplets clinging to Cas’s skin.

                Castiel’s eyes travel up to the circlet on Dean’s head. “You’re going as the Roman?” he asks with a chuckle, opening his bedroom door and pulling Dean inside with him.

                Dean huffs a little laugh, leaning in and capturing Cas’s lips in what’s meant to be a brief kiss, but ends up a little longer because Castiel is dripping wet and shirtless at the moment, and it’s doing things to Dean’s head. When he finally pulls away, he sort of shrugs. “Charlie made me,” he says, “She said I look _beautiful_ with the crown.”

                Cas hums and strokes the edge of the circlet with his fingers, letting the touch travel until he’s carding his fingers through Dean’s hair. His hand lands on the base of Dean’s neck, and Dean shivers a little. “She’s right,” Cas replies, leaning in and giving Dean another kiss before pulling away.

                Dean watches him walk over to his dresser, dropping the towel and pulling on a pair of simple white boxers, giving Dean an eyeful of his firm ass in the process. Dean swallows and pretends he didn’t notice when Cas turns back around to grab a pair of jeans off his bed that are laying there next to a red flannel, a cowboy hat, and a freaking _lasso_. There are boots with spurs on the floor.

                Dean walks over and drops his costume on the bed too, shrugging out of his flannel and jeans, hesitating before pulling his shirt off. He keeps having to remind himself that Castiel has seen his scars. It’s still in the back of his mind every time he takes off his shirt.

                He reaches down and picks up the toga, searching it for the neck hole. “How the hell does this thing work?” Dean grumbles, and Castiel chuckles, taking it from Dean and guiding his arms into the pre-sewn holes before lifting it over his head, mindful of the circlet. Dean smoothes it down once it’s on, and goes about tying the gold rope around his waist. The toga falls just below his knees, and Dean slips his feet into the sandals that came with it.

                “I feel fruity,” he says, attempting to lace up the leather straps of the sandals. The weave up his leg, knotting mid-calf and leaving most of his foot exposed. While he’s bent over, he adjusts the clips on his Ace bandage, making sure they’re secure since he won’t have anything else hiding his burns tonight.

                “ _You_ feel fruity?” Castiel grumbles, and Dean straightens back up, just as Castiel is placing the cowboy hat on his head.

                Dean can’t help it. He gulps. Castiel looks _hot_. The jeans are tight enough to hug his ass, but loose enough not to cling to him like a second skin. The red flannel is tucked into them, and Cas has a big belt buckle in the shape of a star on the front of the jeans, the same color as the spurs of his boots. The lasso is hooked into the side of the belt and hangs in a loop against the outside of Cas’s thigh. The outfit reminds Dean a bit of the Clint Eastwood movie he watched at the Singer's last night, and he has to remind himself to blink.

                “Wow,” Cas breathes, and Dean looks at his face to see that Castiel is staring at Dean’s outfit.

                “What?”

                “You look amazing,” Cas says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “I’m wearing a dress,” he points out, “ _You_ look like a walking sex symbol.”

                Castiel blushes a little and looks down at his clothing, smoothing his hand over the flannel and tapping the toe of his boot against the floor. Dean comes forward and winds his arms around Castiel’s back, taking his hat off for him and giving him a slow kiss. They don’t get to kiss for very long though.

                “Put the condoms away and get down here! We gotta go!” Gabriel’s voice echoes up the stairs and Cas chuckles, planting one last kiss on Dean’s lips and straightening out the gold circlet in his hair. Dean sets the cowboy hat back on Castiel’s head, and they weave their hands together, heading out of the room.

                Charlie gasps when they get down the stairs, and pulls out her phone to take a picture. “You guys look amazing! You look like those people that do the reenactments for those documentaries on the History Channel!”

                She forces Dean and Cas to stop and pose for a picture, and then she sets up the timer on her phone camera, gathering everyone together for a group photo. Dean makes fun of Kevin in his tiger costume, and nearly swallows his tongue when he sees Gabriel, all leather clad and covered in chains. He even had Charlie place a red lipstick kiss mark right on the side of his neck for good measure.

                They get a good group photo together, and Charlie sends it to all of them over text message just in case she happens to lose her phone tonight, and then they’re all out of the house. Dean feels a swell of pride when all of them gush over how gorgeous the Impala is. They have to squeeze into it since there are six of them, and they wave to Anna and Jesse peeking out of Missouri’s living room windows.

                Castiel sits in the middle front seat, right next to Dean, and they smile at each other as he starts up the roaring engine, shoving a Black Sabbath tape into the cassette player for the ride. He takes the roads slowly through town, but once he hits the highway, he floors it, pushing his baby to her max, keeping an eye out for cops.

                All six of them argue about music for a while, which leads to an argument about movies, and Dean can’t quite understand how all of them are friends when they can’t really agree on anything. He and Charlie have the most similar taste in the car, and end up having their own private conversation in the Elvish language from _The_ _Lord Of The Rings_. Castiel, who for the most part has been sitting there lost on the conversation, perks up when Dean starts speaking a different language, and his eyes widen.

                “I didn’t know you were bilingual,” he says in awe, and Dean laughs while Charlie explains that it’s a fictional language from a fantasy series.

                Dean waggles his eyebrows and gives Castiel a cheesy pick up line in Vulcan from _Star Trek_ , and although Cas looks confused, he responds in another language that Dean doesn’t understand. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and Castiel explains that he’s speaking in Enochian, the language of the angels that he learned when he was young from his religious parents. Dean gulps and requests that Castiel speak more of it, and they all listen to Cas as he speaks the guttural language.

                Dean feels his cock twitch under the stupid toga, and he wonders how he’s going to make it through tonight without sporting a huge boner with Castiel dressed as a cowboy _and_ speaking another language. His voice is _deeper_ than normal when he speaks the Enochian.

                Dean leans over and kisses Castiel while he’s driving, as if he can lick the unfamiliar words right out of Cas’s mouth. They keep kissing until Dean almost drives off the road and Gabe slaps the back of his head and tells him to pay attention.

                It takes about forty-five minutes to get to Johnson, and when they arrive at the _Talbot Manor_ where the party is, with its many hundreds of gargoyles and partygoers scattered everywhere, Dean pulls the Impala into one of the mansion’s parking lots (he still can’t believe someone’s _house_ has parking lots) and they climb out, shivering in the cold in their costumes and hurrying into the warmth of the house.

                Just like the last party here, and just like _every_ party here, the music is loud on the surround sound speakers when they get inside, and there are drunk people everywhere already. The six of them head back through the vast front hall, beneath the chandeliers and between the massive twin staircases, to the huge bar and living room area where the dance floor is set up. There’s already a huge crowd of people dancing, and Dean is actually impressed with the turnout. There has to be over a thousand people here. It’s bigger than the party in January, but he’s sure there will be another party at the end of the school year that will have _thousands_ of people in May.

                The bar in the corner has three bartenders working at it, and they once again don’t even bother to check ID’s of every partygoer. Dean orders them all two shots each, just to start out. He’s not going to drink too much since he has to drive everyone home later, but he’ll let himself have a couple drinks now.

                They can’t really hear each other over the loud music, but they do a toast and toss back two shots each, and Charlie and Dorothy cheer before running out onto the dance floor together. Gabriel and Kevin have each other’s backs and search for girls to dance with together, while Dean drags Castiel out into the crowd. He remembers the last time he was here with Cas, when all they’d shared before was one kiss together, when Dean was terrified, but not terrified enough to keep himself from dancing with Castiel. That night is a blur, but Dean remembers slow dancing with Castiel in the middle of the rowdy crowd, and kissing Cas again, and sucking him off in that coat closet.

                It’s crazy how far they’ve come.

                They dance for what has to be at least a couple hours, and Dean delights in watching Castiel get more and more drunk as the evening progresses. Just like the last party, Bela Talbot has hired waiters to walk through the crowd with trays of drinks, and Dean snags one every time they come by, tipping the alcohol into Cas’s mouth and licking up the droplets that spill over his chin. In the middle of the crowd, Gabriel and Kevin are dancing with two girls each, and the ladies seem to _love_ Kevin’s adorable tiger costume, which makes Dean chuckle. Charlie and Dorothy split apart and dance with Dean and Cas for a while, but eventually gravitate back together, and Dean has to admit that the two of them are stealing the show, the devil and the angel spinning and laughing and kissing in the middle of the crowd.

                Castiel gets drunk really fast, and is grinning like an idiot, getting more and more touchy with Dean, which Dean is completely okay with. Cas takes the cowboy hat off his head at one point and throws it like a Frisbee into the dancing crowd. It disappears into the masses and Dean throws his head back and laughs, pulling Castiel in for a sloppy kiss. Cas tastes like alcohol, but also sweet like cherries. He must have had something with cherries in it, and Dean chases the flavor, enjoying the way Castiel clings to the front of his toga and presses in close.

                At one point, a skinny little girl dressed as a peacock wiggles her way between them and starts dancing with both of them, grinding her ass into Dean’s crotch and pulling Castiel in by his hips. Both of them just shrug and go along with it. What the hell, right? It’s a party. Dean leans over the girl’s feather-clad shoulder and locks lips with Castiel, and while the girl sucks a bruise into Cas’s neck, Cas plunges his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and they make out sloppily over her. A few minutes later, she spins around and starts grinding on Cas, pulling Dean down and nipping at his neck too. Dean and Cas barely break away from kissing each other, and Dean starts to think about how much fun it would be to have a threesome with Castiel and somebody else. He wonders how that would go, and kind of chuckles at the idea of Cas, who so recently lost his virginity, doing something so raunchy like that.

                But then again, anything’s possible.

                After a while, the girl gives them both a delicate little kiss on the cheek and runs off to find other people to dance with, obviously drunk and planning on getting drunker. Dean laughs and touches the hickey the girl left on Castiel’s neck, and Cas leans in, biting down on the side of Dean’s neck where the girl also left a hickey, creating one of his own right over the mark possessively. Dean has to fight to keep himself at half mast, because he’s pretty sure a boner would tent the hell out of this toga.

                A little later, when Charlie and Dorothy come back over, they all want another beer, and Dean leaves Castiel with them in the crowd to go order three more beers at the bar. He runs into Crowley, of all people, sitting at one of the stools at the bar drinking a whiskey, dressed simply in a black t-shirt and a kilt.

                Dean laughs at the kilt. “Dude, nice dress!” he snorts, and Crowley raises an eyebrow.

                “I could say the same for you, mate,” he replies, eyeing Dean up and down. Dean glances down at his toga and fiddles with the gold circlet on his head for a second before shrugging.

                “Whatever, I make a damn good Roman,” he says, and Crowley purses his lips with a lift of one shoulder before digging in one of the pockets on his kilt.

                “Here, I have a gift for you,” he says, handing Dean a plastic baggy. Dean looks down and realizes it’s weed. A lot of it, too. His eyes widen.

                “You’re _giving_ this to me?” he asks, “What’s the catch?”

                Crowley rolls his eyes and takes another sip of his whiskey. “It’s a sativa. I don’t like it as much as the indica strains I’ve had. Keep it.”

                Dean huffs a breath. “Thanks man,” he says, shooting Crowley a grateful look. This is an expensive amount of weed. Dean awkwardly reaches under the end of the toga and tucks the plastic bag into the elastic waistband of his boxers since he doesn’t have any pockets on his toga.

                “Are you here with your precious butterfly?” Crowley asks, draining the last of his whiskey and signaling for another.

                Dean fixes him with a look. “I’m here with _Cas_ ,” he replies, “Are you here alone?”

                Crowley shakes his head. “The usual suspects are with me,” he says, “I lost them in the crowd.”

                Dean stiffens a little. The usual suspects. That means Gordon, Zach, and Alastair. Dean cringes at the idea of Alastair being somewhere in that dancing crowd, but he tries to shake it off. There are over a thousand people here. The chances of Dean running into him sometime tonight are slim. He eyes Crowley with a bit of sympathy.

                “You wanna come chill with us for a bit?” he asks, “It beats sitting here all alone.”

                Crowley rolls his eyes. “I’m perfectly content here,” he replies, “You know I despise dancing. And the bartender has Glencraig.”

                Dean snorts and pops his eyebrows. “Suit yourself,” he says, picking up his beers from the counter, “Thanks for the grass man.”

                Crowley lifts his new glass of whiskey to Dean and takes a drink, and Dean shoots him a half-smile before heading back out into the crowd, passing off the beers to Charlie, Dorothy, and Cas. Castiel is being danced on by a skinny guy in a black ninja suit, but he’s so drunk he barely seems to notice. Dean steals him back and pulls him in with fingers hooked into the belt loops of Castiel’s cowboy jeans, kissing him deeply. The rowdiness of the crowd dies down a little when a slow song comes on, but when Dean takes a second to glance around, everyone is sort of just making out with each other. And Dean is completely on board with that.

                He makes out with Castiel the entire slow song, reveling in the way Castiel seems starved for it, loosened up with a bit of alcohol in his system. His strong hands grip Dean’s sides and pull him in close, that belt buckle digging into Dean’s stomach. And _fuck_ , he’s hard. Of course he’s hard. It doesn’t take much to get Dean going, especially when it involves Cas. He can feel his dick tenting the toga, and Castiel’s erection responding through those jeans, pressing into Dean’s thigh.

                Even when the slow song passes and another rowdy song comes on again, Dean and Cas keep making out, grinding a little against each other, practically fucking with their clothes on in the middle of the dance floor. People keep bumping into them a little, but nobody really seems to notice their preoccupation with each other. Dean knows he’s moaning, but can only feel the vibration of it in his throat, can’t hear it over the bass, over whatever crappy hip hop song is playing right now. He can feel the roughness of Cas’s jeans through the thin material of the toga, and _holy fuck_ , if Dean keeps going like this, he might just come in his boxers.

                Dean’s hands travel down to Castiel’s ass, and he grabs handfuls of it, pulling Cas even closer, feeling the way Castiel stiffens in his grip and rolls his hips forward. Dean presses his erection snug against Cas’s, and thrusts roughly, nearly knocking them both off balance. Castiel catches his footing and meets Dean’s next thrust, and Dean can feel Castiel’s sudden desperation in the way he presses closer, the way his hands tighten on Dean’s sides, the way his teeth nip at Dean’s bottom lip. Cas plunges his tongue into Dean’s mouth, and he only gets more aggressive, more dominant, when he’s _really_ turned on, which means whatever Dean’s doing is working.

                He smiles into the kiss and allows Castiel to lead, the way Cas likes to, and Castiel wraps his arms all the way around Dean now, leaning into him and thrusting again. They grind against each other to the beat of the music, fast and hard, the bass pumping through their veins and prickling their skin. Dean has half a mind to look around and make sure nobody knows what they’re doing, knows that they’re basically fucking right here on the dance floor, but he doesn’t. He’s too lost in it. Lost in the way Castiel’s thrusts are growing erratic, in the way Castiel is just barely hanging on to control. Lost in the way Cas is somehow managing to push all of Dean’s buttons even though he’s drunk and shouldn’t be so tuned in to everything Dean needs.

                Dean knows the exact moment when Castiel comes. He can _feel_ Cas’s dick twitch through their clothing with how tightly they’re pressed together. Castiel’s whole body stiffens and stills and he presses his mouth hard against Dean’s. The feeling of Cas’s dick twitching against Dean’s pushes Dean over that edge too, and he moans loudly, the sound drowned out by the music, and comes in his boxers, spilling hot in the loose material.

                For a minute or two, it’s complete bliss. Both of them gasp into each other’s mouths and kiss their way through it, thrusting together a couple more times before loosening their holds a bit and kissing more gently now that the urgency of arousal is sated. But the moment Dean pulls away even a fraction of a inch, he feels come start to run slowly down the inside of his thigh, soaking into his boxers, and he grimaces in disgust.

                He breaks off from the kiss and looks down. In the darkness and flashing lights, he can’t really see whether the evidence of his climax is obvious on the front of the toga, but he really needs to clean up. He chuckles a little breathlessly and leans it next to Cas’s ear.

                “I hope Gabe doesn’t want this costume back!” he shouts over the music, and Castiel laughs drunkenly, kissing Dean on the cheek and panting. Dean huffs a little laugh and leans in again. “I need to find a bathroom! You should come get cleaned up!”

                Castiel grins and shakes his head, swaying drunkenly to the music, and Dean snorts, glancing down at Castiel’s jeans. They don’t look soiled. It’s probably easier for him to have come in his pants when he’s wearing jeans. Dean has nothing but boxers and miles of open space under the toga. But he’s the sober one here, and he knows Castiel will probably regret not cleaning up later when he has dried come sticking in his pubes. He grimaces again at the wetness and then leans in.

                “Come on, we’re getting cleaned up!” he shouts over the music, making it an order this time instead of a request. He grabs Cas’s hand and doesn’t wait for a response, pulling him along, and Castiel stumbles after him.

                It takes them almost ten minutes to find a bathroom in the huge mansion. They pass through a massive kitchen, and into a back hallway, and finally find one in a sunroom near the side yard. Castiel is still sober enough to manage cleaning himself up just fine, so Dean locks the bathroom door and wets a couple washcloths for them, mopping up the come in his boxers as best he can. He feels a little guilty for using the nice washcloths to clean up their come, but he figures the Talbots can probably afford more, so he just throws them away in the garbage under the sink.

                When they get back out to the dance floor, Dean realizes the bag of pot that he had tucked into the waistband of his boxers is gone, and he curses, telling Castiel he’ll be right back and wandering to the bathroom again. There are still partygoers all over the place in this part of the house, but thankfully none of them have gone into the bathroom yet, and he finds the bag of weed on the white tile floor. He scoops it up and tucks it back in his waistband and then leaves the bathroom again to go back to dancing.

                He’s partway down the dark back hallway that leads to the massive kitchen and the main room beyond when a pair of strong hands grabs him from behind, yanking him to the side with a startled yelp. He’s pulled forcefully into what looks like a decent sized pantry with dry goods stacked on wooden shelves, and that’s about all he gets a chance to see before the door is shut and he’s slammed back against it.

                His stomach twists sharply with panic when Alastair appears in front of him, his bony hands gripping Dean’s arms, face inches away, a feral smile on his lips.

                “What the fuck are you doing?” Dean demands, trying to jerk out of Alastair’s grasp, “Get the fuck off me!”

                Alastair just holds him harder though, and Dean stiffens and growls when Al presses their bodies together. “Tell me something Dean,” he says, in that horrible, nasally voice of his that sends chills down Dean’s spine and makes him want to puke, “What’s so special about that little smudge?”

                Dean tries to jerk out of his grasp again, but Alastair has him trapped, his arms awkwardly pinned at his sides. It takes him a second to realize Al is talking about Castiel, but he doesn’t afford him a response other than to snap, “Let me the fuck go!”

                But Alastair just ignores him and continues. “Because whatever he gives you,” Al hisses, at the same time as one of his hands starts to slide down Dean’s stomach, “I can give it to you better.”

                Dean’s stomach lurches as he feels Alastair’s hand slide lower and lower. His breath reeks of alcohol, and Alastair’s eyes are hazy with drunkenness, but Dean doesn’t think that really matters. Al behaves like this sober too. Dean shouldn’t really be surprised when Alastair continues downward and his hand settles over Dean’s crotch, but he still feels his heart clench in his chest and he sucks in a sharp breath, trying to jerk free of Alastair’s grasp again.

                Al just grins like he’s enjoying the way Dean tries to squirm away.

                “Stop! You sick fuck!” Dean shouts at him on the edge of a sob, trying to pry one of his wrists loose where it’s pinned behind his back.

                Alastair clucks his tongue as he massages his hand into Dean’s uninterested dick, pressing closer, his hot breath washing over Dean’s cheek as Dean turns his face away and cringes back. “Don’t pretend like you don’t like it Dean,” he breathes, tongue darting out to lick along the sharp cut of Dean’s jaw, “I’m so sick of you playing hard to get.”

                Dean twists again, trying to free his arm. Just _one_ arm, that’s all he needs, and he can get the jump on Alastair. He can’t help the nauseated shiver that rolls through him when he feels Alastair’s erection press to his hip, can’t help the small, choked off whimper that finds its way up from his throat as he feels Alastair’s hand tighten around his dick through the material of the toga.

                “Get the fuck off me,” he growls through gritted teeth, trying not to puke. He feels tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, and he’s shaking again. _Fuck_ , it’s just like Ghost Town all over again. He can feel his mind tipping towards the edge of cracking. All these months he’s had to try to recover, and here Alastair is ruining all of that by doing it again.

                _No_. No! Dean will _not_ let this happen again.

                He shivers and jerks his body again as Alastair’s teeth nip at his jaw, and his hand continues to massage Dean’s uninterested cock. “Don’t try to fight it Dean,” Al hisses, directly into Dean’s ear at the same time as he traces his tongue around the shell of it, “We both know that little stain could never give it to you as good as I can.”

                Dean growls and tosses his head, dislodging Al’s mouth from the side of his face as Alastair starts to grind against his hip. Dean snaps his teeth at him, hoping to at least catch a bit a skin, but Alastair just laughs and grabs Dean’s jaw, pinning his head back against the door and digging those long, dirty fingernails into the sensitive flesh below Dean’s ears.

                Dean feels a tear slip out of the corner of his eye as he tries to wrench his body free again, and that’s what does it. He remembers how fucking humiliated he felt when he sobbed at Ghost Town while Al was violating him… _raping_ him. He remembers how much of a pansy he was, just laying there crying like a pathetic little girl.

                He vowed to himself that he would _never_ let anyone see him like that again. And that’s not about to change.

                He wrenches his body forward one more time, but he doesn’t budge, and Alastair just chuckles darkly and thrusts against him again. Dean swallows back his nausea and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to get his wits about him.

                In a last ditch effort, he twists again, and drives his hip forward. The angle is just right, and he hears Alastair yelp as Dean’s hipbone jams into his erection. For only a split moment, Alastair’s hold loosens, but it’s long enough for Dean to wriggle one hand free. He growls in rage and doesn’t hesitate for even a moment before he swings.

                His fist connects with the side of Al’s face. _Hard_.

                Alastair shouts, his head snapping to the side, his hold on Dean loosening more, but not enough. Dean barely pauses before swinging again, punching Alastair in nearly the exact same spot, sending Al stumbling into one of the wooden shelves with what looks like jars of sliced fruit stacked on it. His hands fall away from Dean with the rest of him, and Dean’s heart is slamming in his chest, his mind trying to catch up to the fact that this is happening. It all happened so fast, but the way he’s practically hyperventilating, tears pricking in his eyes, body shaking violently, is enough of an indication that this isn’t just a dream or something.

                Before Alastair can get his wits about him, Dean grabs up handfuls of the son of a bitch’s shirt, jerking him around and slamming him back against the door where Dean was just pinned. Al lashes out, trying to regain control of the situation, but Dean jams his arm up right against Al’s throat, probably cutting off his air and pinning Alastair against the wood. It's a fair fight this time. Dean isn't intoxicated like he was Ghost Town. Alastair may be stronger than him, but this time, Dean's got more power behind his actions, his body functioning better when it isn't under the heavy weight of drugs. 

                Dean fights the nausea boiling ferociously in his gut, half-convinced that he’s going to vomit all over Alastair’s shirt right here and now. When Alastair tries to grab at him again, Dean punches him one more time across the face with his free hand for good measure, and then leans in really close, locking angry eyes with Alastair.

                “You fucking listen to me you son of a bitch,” Dean growls, low and dangerous, his voice shaking, hands clenching into fists so hard that his knuckles are chalk white, “Let’s get something clear, okay? I _hate_ you. I’m always _going_ to hate you.”

                The amused and lustful look in Alastair’s eyes in gone, replaced by what can only be described as uncontrollable _rage_.

                “You hear me?” Dean continues, jamming his arm harder against Alastair’s throat and enjoying the gagging sound it draws from Al’s lips, “I fucking _hate_ your slimy guts. So get the _fuck_ out of my face, and leave me and Cas the _fuck_ alone.”

                He stares hard into Alastair’s suddenly livid eyes for several long moments, breathing hard, wanting nothing more than to snap Alastair’s neck. He settles on spitting directly into Al’s face instead, disgust, hatred, and nausea roaring ferociously inside him. Then, Dean pulls away and shoves Alastair to the side, delivering another powerful punch to the side of his head. Alastair goes toppling to the floor, and Dean barely spares him another glance, tearing open the pantry door and gripping his churning stomach all the way back down the hall.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel is drunk. Not drunk enough that he won't remember tonight, or that's he's sloppy and stupid and tripping over himself, but he's pleasantly drunk, enough to where there's a permanent grin on his face and dancing feels like the most exciting thing in the world.

                He sobers instantly the second he sees the look on Dean's face.

                Dean comes back to the dance floor pale white, his eyes round and wild like he's just seen a ghost.

                Before Cas can do anything else, Dean wraps himself around him, and Castiel all but catches him when Dean plasters himself against him. When Castiel automatically winds his arms around Dean in return, he can feel the violent shivers wracking Dean's large frame, and his heart twists in worry when he feels the way Dean is clinging to him tightly like a small child that's just had a nightmare.

                Castiel just holds onto him for a minute or two, his eyebrows pressing together in confusion and concern. Dean was fine a couple minutes ago. What the hell happened?

                Dean tries to hold onto him as Cas pulls away, but Castiel manages to separate them enough to get a look at Dean's face, to try to look into his eyes. Dean refuses to meet his gaze, looking down at the floor between them. Castiel leans in next to his ear.

                "What's wrong?" he shouts over the music, and Dean just shakes his head a little, his grip tight around Castiel.

                "I'm fine, it's nothing," Dean says back, barely audible over the noise. But Castiel knows he's lying. Dean is _not_ fine.

                Before he can say anything, though, Dean just tucks himself against Castiel again and holds on like he's about to fall off the edge of the world. Cas holds him close, searching the crowd over Dean's shoulder with his eyes, like he'll find the answer for Dean's sudden drastic change in mood out there in the squirming masses of partygoers. But all he sees are flashing lights and writhing bodies.

                When another wave of violent trembling rolls through Dean, Castiel asks, "Do you want to leave?" Dean pulls away a little, swallowing, looking like he's considering it, but then his eyes glance behind Castiel, and when Cas looks back, he sees Charlie and Dorothy still dancing and laughing and having the time of their lives.

                When Castiel looks back at Dean, Dean shakes his head a little. "We can stay," he says, and Cas grits his teeth in worry. He knows Dean is only staying because he's the designated driver and all of their friends are having a good time right now. Cas considers going over and just telling all of them that it's time to go and they're leaving, because he's so confused and worried about Dean's sudden mood change, but then Dean wraps himself around Cas again, and presses their lips together.

                The way Dean is kissing Castiel is all wrong. It's desperate and shaky, and Castiel places his hand on the side of Dean's face to try to calm him down, slow the kiss a little bit. It works marginally, and Dean relaxes his body just a bit, still clinging to Castiel's sides and shaking.

                Cas doesn't ask whether Dean is okay again. They've been through this before, and Dean isn't going to talk about it, whatever it is. So he doesn't ask. He just kisses Dean, and holds onto him, and waits until the shaking in Dean's limbs fades and the panicked look in his eyes melts back to calm.

                It takes almost an hour, but eventually Dean relaxes again, and when Castiel looks at his face, Dean gives him a strained smile. Gabriel and Kevin appear out of the crowd with a bunch of girls in tow, and Castiel watches as Dean plasters on a big grin, laughing and starting to dance again. Cas knows he's faking it, and it feels all wrong, but he lets it go for now and dances too.

                The party continues into the early hours of dawn. Castiel doesn’t drink anymore for the rest of the night, although he’s still a little buzzed by the time all of them are exhausted and ready to leave. He keeps a close eye on Dean for the rest of the time they’re at the party, worry sitting heavy in his gut, but if he hadn’t seen Dean earlier when Dean came back from the bathroom shaking and panicked, he wouldn’t think there was anything wrong at all, Dean’s so good at pretending he’s okay.

                The music is still playing by the time they leave, but the dancing has mostly faded, people splitting off into small groups to chat in the corners. There are several couples making out on the front lawn in the dark of the early morning when the six of them walk out towards the parking lot with the Impala.

                Dean holds Castiel’s hand the whole way back to Rail Pass, and Cas plays absently with his fingers in his lap, listening to Gabriel and Charlie banter in the back seat. Kevin is passed out next to Castiel, face pressed against the window, and Dorothy occasionally pipes up when she agrees with something Charlie says to Gabe.

                Dean remains relatively silent the whole ride, occasionally saying a few words here and there, but mostly just staring out the windshield and taking the highway at a much more controlled speed than when they left for the party earlier last night. He drops Kevin off at his house first, and then Gabriel, and Dorothy stays the night at Charlie’s.

                It’s almost four in the morning by the time Cas and Dean get back to Castiel’s house, and even though the party was really rowdy and Cas drank a lot, neither of them are particularly tired. Dean is on him the second they close Castiel’s front door, grabbing him and kissing him desperately, backing Cas up against the wall near that flimsy coat rack in Cas’s front hallway.

                The way Dean is kissing Castiel is sending off bad signals in Cas’s head. Dean is being a little too desperate, a little too rough, clinging tighter to Castiel than usual, barely breathing between kisses. Cas doesn’t participate much at first, not until Dean deliberately takes his hands and places them on himself, sliding Cas’s hands across the thin fabric of the toga, smooth muscles rippling underneath.

                Dean breaks away from the kiss long enough to pant, “I want you to touch me,” and then they’re kissing again. Castiel digs his fingers gently into Dean’s sides, getting lost in the feeling of Dean’s lips against his, Dean’s tongue plunging desperately into his mouth. But he doesn’t allow himself to get carried away for very long. He lets go of Dean’s torso and slides his hands up to the sides of Dean’s face, pulling Dean away from him forcefully, just enough to where their faces are an inch or so apart and Castiel can look into Dean’s eyes.

                “Dean, stop,” he says, not missing the watery look in Dean’s eyes, or the way Dean is shaking again, “Please…tell me what’s wrong. I know something’s wrong.”

                Dean shakes his head and tries to go back in for another kiss, but Castiel spins them around, pinning Dean back against the wall to keep him from kissing him again. Dean tries to pull Castiel in, but Cas holds himself a safe distance away, and eventually, when Dean realizes Cas isn’t going to give in, he slumps defeated against the wall, his head thumping back against the wood.

                Castiel hesitates before placing his hand on the side of Dean’s face, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb, and Dean lets loose a shuddering sigh, closing his eyes for a second. 

                “What happened?” Castiel asks, and Dean’s throat ripples as he swallows. His eyes fall open again a few seconds later and he looks at Castiel with a naked, pleading look that practically shatters Cas’s heart.

                “Please Cas…” he begs, “It doesn’t matter. Can we just forget about it?”

                Castiel studies his face for a long moment. So something _did_ happen. Well at least Dean is admitting there’s something wrong. It’s a lot more than Castiel has gotten out of him before. He stares at Dean, torn between wanting to demand answers, and knowing that pushing Dean to talk isn’t going to help either of them.

                With a small sigh, he brushes his thumb over Dean’s cheek again.

                “Alright, well…if you won’t tell me what’s wrong…at least tell me what I can do to help?” Castiel coaxes, looking earnestly into Dean’s eyes. He can see the relief on Dean’s face when Dean realizes Castiel isn’t going to push him to talk about whatever happened at the party to freak him out so much. Dean stares at him for a second, swallowing again, and then his hands flex where they’re settled on Cas’s sides.

                “You can kiss me,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, and Castiel studies his face for a few moments. He wants to do everything he can to help, but it looks like all he _can_ do is comply with Dean’s wishes right now.

                _God_ , why does this have to be so hard?

                He sighs, giving Dean a tiny smile, and then nods a little. When he leans in this time, he doesn’t hold back from the kiss. He presses Dean roughly against the wall and licks his way into Dean’s mouth. Dean parts his lips submissively and lets Castiel do whatever he wants, pressing their bodies together and nipping at Dean’s plump lower lip, sliding his hands up Dean’s hard stomach and along his shoulders, through his hair, his fingertips bumping up against that gold circlet still sitting on the top of Dean’s head.

                Dean clings to him, although not as desperately as before, maybe because now he realizes that Castiel isn’t going to pry. And this is good. This is okay. Castiel can accept this for now. File this away as another thing that Dean will talk to him about later. For now, he can just kiss Dean. It’s his favorite thing to do after all, no matter how worried he is. Dean trusted him enough a couple weeks ago to deliberately show Cas his scars. So maybe someday soon, Dean will trust him enough to talk about the things he’s hiding now.

                Castiel deepens the kiss as his thoughts settle, trying to convey his trustworthiness through each swipe of his tongue along Dean’s, each nip of his teeth, each slow drag of their lips together. They kiss like that for an endless number of minutes, and in the silence, the heater kicks on, a thump and crash in the walls before it sputters to life. Maybe Kevin managed to fix it for good this time – it hasn’t broken in several days.

                Castiel lets his hands slide away from Dean’s hair and back down his sides, smoothing his palms down Dean's ribs through the toga and settling on his hips. His hand bumps up against something crinkly under Dean’s robe, and he breaks away from the kiss, his forehead creasing as he looks down.

                “What’s this?” he asks, and Dean shifts a little.

                “Oh,” he says, like he forgot, “I ran into Crowley at the party. He gave me some weed.”

                Dean reaches awkwardly under the toga and pulls a small plastic bag of marijuana out from the waistband of his boxers, holding it up with a grin. His hands are still shaking a little, but his smile, this time, is more genuine, to Castiel’s relief. He’s glad he can provide a distraction from whatever is eating away at Dean’s mind.

                Castiel cocks his head to the side with a little chuckle, taking the bag of weed and fiddling with the little nuggets of green inside through the plastic. “It’s been so long since I smoked, I can’t even remember what it feels like,” he says, recalling the last time he smoked weed with his friend Brady in California, before he realized that Brady was actually an asshole just using him for his homework. They smoked a joint under the bleachers at their high school like something out of a cliché teen drama movie.

                Dean huffs a little laugh. “How many times have you smoked?”

                Cas shrugs. “Just a few,” he replies honestly, fiddling with the drug in his hands as he looks back up at Dean’s face, “I don’t recall enjoying it very much.”    

                Dean hums a little, his face still only a foot or so away, their bodies pressed together. He takes the pot back and thumbs at the nuggets pensively for a moment. “Maybe you just weren’t with the right people,” he says, cocking his head, “You gotta be around good people to really enjoy it, I think.”

                Castiel lifts one shoulder in a half shrug. “Maybe,” he replies, “That makes sense.”

                Dean lifts his eyes, studying Cas’s face for a moment, and then a big grin spreads slowly across his lips. Castiel’s eyebrows press together. “What are you smiling at?”

                Dean grins wider. “Wanna try it?” he asks, holding up the weed.          

                Castiel cocks his head. “What? Now?”

                Dean nods. “Why not? We got the house to ourselves.”

                Castiel chuckles a little at the suddenly excited look on Dean’s face. “We don’t have anything to smoke it out of,” he points out, “Unless you have rolling papers.”

                Dean steps forward away from the wall, and Castiel slides back to give him room as he grabs his keys. “I’ve got something better,” he replies with another smile, and Castiel follows him curiously out the front door and to the Impala parked on the curb.

                Dean opens the back door and crouches down, lifting up the carpet on the floor. There’s a board beneath it, and when Dean lifts that up, a tiny compartment is revealed. There’s a small pipe laying in it, and Dean plucks it out, laying the board and carpet back down and locking up the car again, holding the pipe up for Cas to take. Castiel raises an eyebrow with a small grin.

                “You hide your piece in your father’s car?” he asks, eyeing Dean skeptically.

                Dean snorts and leads the way back to the house, shivering in the cold in his flimsy sandals and toga. “It’s actually my dad’s,” he replies, “I found it a couple years ago. He thinks I don’t know.”

                Castiel’s eyebrows press together. “Does your father smoke often?” he asks.

                Dean shakes his head as he opens the front door and they file back into the warmth of the house. It’s almost too warm in here now that the heat’s working again. “I don’t think so,” Dean replies, “I’ve never smelled it on him. I think this is a relic from his college days.”

                Castiel hums in understanding, fiddling with the pipe in his hands. Dean looks at him. “You sure you wanna do this?” he asks, and Cas looks up at Dean, eyeing the weed.

                Then he kind of huffs a little laugh and shrugs. “Sure, why not?” he agrees, and Dean grins, laughing and leaning in to give Castiel one big kiss before grabbing his hand.

                “Come on, let’s do it in your room,” he says, dragging Castiel along up the stairs. Cas smiles a little at how excited Dean is. It’s better than how scared Dean was acting before. This is certainly preferable.

                They strip down out of their costumes when they get up to Castiel’s room. Cas drops his heavy belt buckle and his lasso in the corner, kicking off his cowboy boots as Dean sheds the toga and struggles to unknot the leather straps of the sandals. They both end up in just their boxers, and even though it’s hot in here from the newly working heater, Castiel still lights the candles stacked on his desk, dresser, and nightstand, filling the room with a soft amber glow. Dean cracks the window to let the smoke out, and they close the bedroom door so it doesn’t stink up the house. The smell will likely fade by the time Anna comes home in the morning, but just to be safe.

                Dean sits cross-legged on the bed, with Castiel sitting across from him. Cas studies Dean as Dean expertly packs a bowl for them in the little pipe, filling it to the brim. If Castiel remembers correctly, that’s a _big_ bowl, which means they’re about to get _really_ high. He’s not nervous – he’s actually a little excited. Trying things with Dean is one of his favorite pastimes. Dean breaks off little bits of the weed, the little green chunks sticking to the tips of his fingers, and the sickly sweet smell of it wafts under Cas’s nose.

                He grimaces but ignores the smell, his eyes darting across Dean’s bare chest and stomach while Dean is distracted. _God_ , his scars look so fucking beautiful in the candlelight. Castiel feels warm inside seeing Dean so comfortable in his own skin here, even if he still has that Ace bandage wrapped around his arm. He’s sitting here shirtless like Castiel has known about the scars for years.

                Dean takes the first hit off the pipe, walking Cas through it step by step since Castiel doesn’t remember how. He shows Cas how to light it up with his thumb over the hole on the side, and then lets go and inhales slowly. Dean does it beautifully, his lips wrapping around the end of the pipe. He holds the smoke in his chest for several long seconds, and then releases it slowly in a thick white cloud that ghosts over his face like poetry. Dean grins once he exhales completely and holds the pipe out to Cas.

                Castiel fumbles with it a little, but manages to get it right with Dean’s smooth, rough voice instructing him step by step. Castiel inhales too hard at first and coughs violently. Dean plucks the pipe out of his hand before he drops it and laughs, giving Cas a minute to pull himself together before letting him try again. He gets it right the second time, pulling on the smoke a bit slower, forcing himself not to cough as he holds it in his chest and then exhales gently like he watched Dean do.

                Dean looks strangely proud as he takes the pipe back and pulls in another hit. They pass it back and forth for a short while until there’s nothing left but ashes at the bottom of the pipe, and Dean taps them out into the palm of his hand, chucking them in the trash can near Castiel’s desk. Cas watches him walk, taking in the bow if Dean’s legs, the globes of his ass hidden beneath his boxers, the smooth, trim lines of his back, the shiny, off-white twists and curves of his scars.

                Castiel only realizes he’s high when Dean sits back down on the bed across from him and Castiel didn’t even register that he had walked across the room again. When Dean speaks, his voice seems far away, like he’s shouting from the end of a long hallway. Castiel blinks at him and pauses for a few moments, before he realizes Dean actually said something, and it sounded like a question.

                Castiel squints. “What?” he asks, and Dean hesitates before bursting out laughing.

                Cas doesn’t understand why Dean’s laughing, but he starts laughing too. And he can’t stop. In general, Castiel doesn’t laugh very much, but right now, he can’t stop, and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t even understand what he’s laughing at, because nothing particularly funny happened.

                Dean wipes at his eyes as he laughs, and points at Castiel. “You’re really fucking high, aren’t you?” he says, and bursts out laughing again. Dean’s laugh sounds different right now. High-pitched little giggles vibrate out of his throat and he has the back of his hand over his mouth, covering it as if he needs some sort of modesty to laugh.

                For some reason, that makes Castiel laugh harder. “I think so,” he agrees, and then twitches when he leans too far to the right and feels like he’s going to fall over.

                The bed they’re sitting on feels like a water bed right now. It feels like they’re swaying, floating, sailing along like a really slow roller coaster. Castiel looks down at the bed in wonder, smoothing his hand over the comforter, trying to see if it moves under his palm. It doesn’t, and feels strangely solid for how much it seems to be moving right now.

                “Whoa,” he utters, blinking hard a few times, and Dean leans forward a little, capturing Castiel’s eyes, still grinning.

                “You okay?” he asks, his voice echoing strangely like the walls around them are made of the sky.

                Castiel blinks at him, and then rubs one eye, before moving his tongue around his mouth a little. “My tongue is numb,” he states, and then his eyes widen as he realizes what he just said, “Dean! My tongue is numb!”

                Dean bursts out laughing again, and shakes his head, reaching out and taking Castiel’s hands when Cas reaches for him desperately. “It’s okay, Cas, it happens sometimes,” he reassures him through his laughter, “It’ll pass.”

                “Dean, oh my god! This feels so weird,” he moans, laughing a little and sticking his tongue out.

                “You look like a dog,” Dean giggles stupidly, and Castiel laughs a little, his tongue still hanging out of his mouth as he twitches again. He tilts too far to one side one more time, accidentally, and Dean grabs his shoulders to keep him from falling over, both of them laughing again.

                Castiel is surprised at how hard and how fast the effects of the marijuana hit him. He feels like maybe it should have taken longer, but then again, how long has it been? It feels like hours since he was smoking, but it could have been five minutes ago too. He squeezes his eyes shut and moans again, for no reason, and Dean leans forward, kissing him.

                “You okay?” he asks, and Castiel blinks his eyes open again, squinting at him.

                “You already asked me that,” he replies, and that makes them start laughing _again_.

                Castiel smacks his lips. “I need water,” he says, and Dean nods.

                “Me too,” he replies, sliding off the bed and pulling Castiel after him. Cas treads lightly on the floorboards in his bare feet, and twitches again. It feels like the floor is made of water, and he keeps marveling at how solid it seems to be under his feet when he’s _sure_ that he’s about to fall through it. Dean seems more coordinated, but Dean also has more experience with weed than Castiel does. He helps Cas slowly down the stairs, laughing as Castiel grips his hand tightly, using the railing for support.

                It’s a relief when they get to the kitchen, and both of them down two full glasses of water each, relieving their dry mouths. Dean opens the fridge while Cas finishes up his water.

                “Aw, yes!” Dean cheers, and reaches inside, pulling out a half finished casserole from Missouri. It’s one of the ones with oyster crackers on it, and Castiel grins. That kind is Dean’s favorite kind. Dean grabs a couple forks, but neither of them feels motivated enough to get plates, so he just heats up the whole dish and they eat straight out of the container.

                It’s the best fucking thing Castiel has ever tasted. The salt is _saltier_. The noodles and beef and oyster crackers practically _melt_ in his mouth. He groans, shoveling more in.

                “This is _amazing_ ,” he says, “I don’t remember it being this amazing.”

                Dean laughs. “You’re high dude, everything tastes better when you’re high.”

                Castiel’s eyes widen in agreement, and he scoops up another bite, feeding it to Dean. Dean chuckles and feeds Castiel a bite too, and they take turns shoveling bites of the casserole into each other’s mouths and laughing when they eat too much at once and bits of it fall out onto the countertop. They get so carried away that, at one point, when Castiel goes to scoop up another bite, the container is empty.

                He makes a disappointed noise. “We ate the whole thing,” he says, frowning and looking up at Dean. Dean snorts.

                “Don’t worry, there’s gotta be more,” he says, raiding the fridge again. Castiel joins him, and laughs at how they must look, two teenagers in their boxers in the kitchen, eyes bloodshot as they dig through the refrigerator and giggle at nothing.

                They pull out a box of lunch meat, some bread, a container of blackberries, a can of whipped cream, a carton of rocky road ice cream, pickles, a spray can of Cheez Whiz, and much more, only to go to the cabinet and grab cookies, chips, and other various foods that don’t take a lot of effort to prepare.

                Both of them pile all the food on the island counter, climbing on top of it and sitting there with their legs tangled together between them. Both of them are laughing and talking about nothing in particular. Castiel starts more than one story and then forgets what story he’s telling halfway through it, and has to trail off into more laughter. As Dean crafts a sandwich made of salami, Cheez Whiz, whipped cream, pickles, blackberries, and potato chips (which he states is actually not bad at all when he takes a huge bite of it), Castiel starts up a conversation about a concept he learned that all humans are made of stars.

                Dean listens intently while he eats, his hazy green eyes focused on Castiel while Cas explains that all the elements were at one point made in the center of a star, and that all humans are made of elements, therefore all humans are made of stars. It takes a minute for that to sink in, but then Dean’s eyes widen and he gasps.

                “Oh my god, that’s amazing!” he exclaims, food falling out of his mouth, and Castiel laughs and hands him a paper towel to wipe up the mess he’s made. Castiel eats a forkful of rocky road ice cream while he thinks about it, absently staring at Dean’s face. A few moments later, he reaches out and trails his fingers over the freckles on Dean’s cheeks, causing Dean to jump, startled.

                “You have stars on your face,” Castiel says, poking at the freckles, “It has to be true.”

                Dean snorts, turning his head and kissing Castiel’s hand. He looks like he’s going to say something, but then he sort of blinks and looks back down at the food. Logically, both of them should be extremely full right now, but they both keep eating anyway, because everything tastes too damn good. They finish off the rocky road ice cream, and take turns shooting Cheez Whiz and whipped cream into each other’s mouths. Castiel laughs until he cries when he fills Dean’s mouth to the brim with whipped cream and half of it comes falling out all over his face.

                Dean chokes and hops off the counter, spitting it all into the sink and leans down to splash water over his face, taking a drink. Castiel slides off the counter and comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around Dean’s middle and pressing himself against his back. Dean is warm and solid and Castiel rubs his cheek against the back of Dean’s neck like a cat for a moment, smiling to himself as he holds Dean tight, enjoying the feeling of him in his arms.

                Dean snorts and wriggles free, turning around in Castiel’s grasp, leaning in and kissing him. It feels different to kiss Dean while Cas is high. His eyes are heavy so they fall closed easily, but Cas keeps getting lost in individual sensations. He focuses for a while on how _soft_ Dean’s lips feel, and then finds himself mesmerized by the way he can feel Dean’s heart pounding against his own chest where they’re pressed together. When that feeling passes, Castiel gets caught up in the smooth feeling of Dean’s scars under his palm as he runs his hand down Dean’s side.

                He feels Dean stiffen a little as he does it, but moments later, he relaxes again, allowing Castiel to pin him back against the counter and run his hands all over him. Castiel marvels in the way Dean’s skin changes from soft and unmarked to smooth and scarred, and he traces the scar tissue with his fingertips, reading the entire universe on Dean’s skin.

                After a while, he breaks away from kissing Dean’s lips and trails his mouth down the side of Dean’s face, kissing freckles and stubble. He travels further down and places lingering kisses on the hickey on Dean’s neck from the girl at the party, and nips at his collarbone and chest.

                “ _God_ Dean, you’re so beautiful,” he says, pulling back and sliding his hands all over Dean’s torso like petrified wood, smooth and hard and ancient.

                Dean laughs. “Cas, man, you’re really high,” he says, and Castiel shakes his head.

                “No, I’m serious Dean,” he insists, placing his hands on either side of Dean’s face, carding his fingers through his hair, “You’re so, so beautiful.”

                Dean stares at him, grinning lazily, his green eyes hooded and glazed over. Castiel imagines he probably looks very similar, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. He smiles back, can’t _stop_ smiling, and Dean snickers again and pulls him in for another kiss.

                Castiel doesn’t even notice that he’s hard until they’ve been kissing for what feels like hours there against the counter. When Dean rolls his hips forward, both of them gasp, like neither of them realized that they were as turned on as they are. And it makes sense. Castiel’s whole body feels numb, and yet every nerve ending feels like it’s on fire. It’s a contradiction of sensations that has his head spinning, and he moans into Dean’s mouth, pressing closer, rolling his hips again to get _more_ of this weird sensation, this heightened feeling of arousal. Now that he’s noticed it, it’s all he can think about.

                Certain parts of his body are alight with perception, while others are numb, like adjusting the lights on a stage, spotlights highlighting specific areas at once. For a while, Castiel feels like his skin is crawling with sparks of pleasure, and then his toes are tingling, and then his mouth is all but in flames with the taste and feel of Dean kissing him. Then it’s his cock, straining in his boxers, hard and leaking, every shift and brush of air and skin shocking surprised moans out of Castiel.

                From the guttural sounds Dean is making, he’s feeling the same thing. They rut there shamelessly for a while, not frantic enough of a pace to come, but just enough to keep them hovering on that edge, sometimes pressed so close together all they can do is grind and torture themselves even more.

                At one point, for no particular reason, Castiel pulls away, grabbing Dean’s hand and dragging him up the stairs, both of them laughing and tripping as they go. Cas pushes Dean down on the bed in his room, crawling on top of him, and Dean grins up at him, his cheeks flushed rosy pink in the candlelight.

                “You taste like Cheez Whiz,” he snickers, and Castiel laughs, dipping down and nipping at Dean’s lower lip.

                “You taste like sex,” he replies honestly, because Dean tastes like everything that Castiel thinks of when he thinks of desire. He tastes sinful, and exotic, and downright _irresistible_. Cas chases the flavor, plunging his tongue deep into Dean’s mouth and settling on top of him between his legs.

                They’re both already rock hard and ready to go, so they don’t torture themselves for long, save a little bit of thrusting and grinding. Castiel is the first to dip his hands into the waistband of Dean’s boxers, only because he’s tracing his scars again and they disappear into Dean’s underwear along the side of his thigh and buttock. Dean lifts his hips without even breaking away from the kiss, allowing Castiel to push his boxers down, although Cas doesn’t miss the way Dean shivers a little when he does.

                Dean’s trembling hands find their way to the edge of Cas’s boxers, and he pushes those down too. It takes them a fumbled moment to get their legs free from their underwear, and both of them laugh but manage to kick their boxers to the floor eventually, and then they’re kissing again. Castiel takes Dean’s hands and laces their fingers together, pinning Dean’s arms to the bed spread out like he’s being crucified.

                Dean arches his back, lifting his head off the bed to chase Castiel’s lips as Cas pulls away, dipping down to suck one of Dean’s nipples into his mouth. Dean jerks and groans, the sound seeming to echo in the room, writhing underneath Cas. Castiel is operating one step ahead of his mind. He’ll do something, and then a minute later, his mind will catch up to the fact that he’s doing it. He keeps forgetting what’s happening, only to be caught up again in the physical sensations wrapping around him.

                He slides his way down Dean’s body, releasing his hands in favor of running his palms over Dean’s scars. He pays special attention to the scars, kissing them and licking them and stroking them with his fingers. He must say some of the poetic things he’s thinking to himself about the scars out loud, because Dean snorts and calls him a sap.

                Castiel retaliates by giving no warning before wrapping his mouth around Dean’s straining cock. Dean cries out in surprised pleasure, bucking up off the bed, his hands flying up and gripping fistfuls of Castiel’s hair as Cas swallows him down. For some reason, despite how quickly he lets Dean’s cock slide down his throat, Castiel doesn’t choke. His throat is too numb from the weed for his gag reflex to be doing much good.

                He uses this newfound information to his advantage, burying his nose in Dean’s soft, short pubes, swallowing around his dick, massaging Dean’s shaft with his throat. Dean gasps and moans, squirming beneath Castiel, gripping his hair tightly. Cas knows that his scalp would be hurting at this point normally, but right now, when he’s still flying high, he barely feels it.

                He pulls off of Dean’s cock just to gasp in a breath, and then dips back down, allowing Dean to lift his hips off the bed and fuck himself up into the wet heat of Castiel’s mouth for a moment. Castiel loosens his jaw and just takes it, reveling in the feeling of Dean’s thick shaft sliding in and out of his mouth.

                Just as Castiel feels Dean’s balls tighten in anticipation of his climax, he grabs Dean’s hips, forcing him to still, and pulls off of Dean’s dick, making Dean sob out loud at the loss. Dean tugs on his hair, pulling Castiel back up his body, and crushes their mouths together desperately.

                “Cas, I want you to fuck me,” he gasps between sloppy kisses. Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and tries to force his weed-muddled mind to catch up to the request. When it sinks in what Dean said, he nods, kissing him for a few more seconds before forcing himself to break away. Good, yes, Castiel can definitely get behind this.

                He leans over, fumbling with his nightstand drawer, and digs around inside for a bottle of lube from the many that Dean bought the last time they fucked. He doesn’t even know what flavor he grabs until he pops the cap open, pulling out one of the boxes of condoms with it. The smell of lemon fills the air, and Castiel smiles a little when Dean lifts his head to get a good whiff. It smells artificial, but _amazing_ right now, and makes Castiel want candy or something.

                But he ignores the craving, because he has the best candy of all spread naked and moaning underneath him. It takes him a few tries to squeeze the lube out onto his fingers, and they’re both panting and laughing at his struggles. When he finally gets a decent amount coating his fingers, he drops the bottle aside for now and just sort of acts on his impulses.

                He isn’t really thinking very much, just following what his body is doing before his mind has a chance to consider it. He grabs Dean’s ankle, and flips him over so Dean is on his stomach. Dean yelps in surprise, but doesn’t fight it when Castiel grabs his hip, pulling Dean up so he’s on his hands and knees, kneeling there on all fours. Dean looks back, shivering when Castiel spreads the cheeks of his ass and coats his exposed hole with the lemon lube.

                Castiel kneels behind him and wastes no time, staring unashamed at where his finger is slipping into Dean’s body. Dean gasps as it breaches him, moaning long and low, and neither of them are laughing anymore as Castiel slowly stretches Dean open. Even though he's still high, he has the presence of mind to take his time, to make sure Dean is loose enough so it doesn't hurt when Castiel fucks him.

                He gets lost in the way his fingers look disappearing inside Dean, the way his hole greedily sucks them in, first one, then two, and finally three that Castiel forms into a cone shape and thrusts in and out of Dean's body. Dean stiffens at first, but eventually begins to rock back on the digits, moaning and gasping, falling down onto his elbows and presenting his ass up in the air like the most beautiful gift Castiel has ever received.

                Cas leans forward and trails kisses up the back of Dean's thighs, stroking the globe of his ass and licking lines up the dip of his spine. He notices Dean shaking a little, but ignores it in favor of gentling his touches, reminding Dean with his lips and fingers that they're the only ones here, and nothing else matters.

                Right now, in fact, it really _does_ feel like nothing else in the world matters except for what they're doing here. Castiel can't even remember that a world exists outside of the way his fingers are stroking Dean's inner walls, soft and wet and fucking intoxicating. He gets so caught up in the feeling that he barely hears it when Dean groans that he's ready, ripping open a condom and tossing it to Castiel.

                Cas regrettably pulls his fingers out of Dean, awestruck at the way his loose hole clenches at the sudden emptiness. He barely takes his eyes off of the dusky pink pucker as he rolls the condom onto himself and adds a bit more lube to the rubber just to be safe.

                Dean is beautiful like this, bent over, ass in the air, shaking a little with anticipation. He keeps looking back like he doesn't have patience enough to not see it coming. Castiel smoothes one hand up his back, using the other to position his cock at Dean's entrance. Dean's breath hitches a little when the head of Castiel's cock touches his clenching hole, and Cas has the presence of mind to ask, "Are you alright?" one more time, brief flashes of the panic in Dean's eyes at the party passing through his mind.

                But Dean seems completely lost in the moment too, not even thinking about whatever it was that upset him earlier. He gasps out an impatient " _Yes_ ," and shifts his hips back to try to get Castiel's cock inside him. Cas chuckles a little and steadies Dean with a hand on his hip before slowly pushing in.

                Dean freezes up and his forehead drops to the bed as Castiel penetrates him. Cas gasps as the head of his cock slips inside, and Dean is loose enough that Castiel barely has to pause before pushing forward.

                The heat is _incredible_. It feels different than the last time, all his senses more heightened. Dean feels tighter, wetter, hotter, than before. Castiel jerks his hips forward, maybe too quickly, and fully seats himself inside Dean with an obscene grunt, drawing a startled cry from Dean, his body jolting forward.

                Castiel pauses once he's inside, his ball nestled snuggly up against Dean's ass. He blankets himself over Dean, reaching underneath him and wrapping a hand around Dean's erection, stroking it back to life a few times. Dean's hole clenches around him in response, and Castiel mouths at Dean's shoulder blade, groaning, his hips twitching.

                "You're so warm," he gasps in awe, thumbing over the head of Dean's cock, drawing another guttural groan out of him.

                Dean doesn't say anything in response, just grips handfuls of the sheets, his toes curling where his legs are spread for Castiel. Cas keeps himself pressed tight to Dean's back as he pulls his cock out, sliding out to the head, and then slamming back in. It's not as rough as the last time, but it feels almost better. Dean cries out at the sensation of being filled as Castiel strokes him in time with every thrust.

                The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, and everything feels so _wet_ between their bodies, lube and sweat paving the way as Castiel pistons in and out of Dean. Both of them are too high to notice that they're moaning so loudly, little cries punched out of Dean with every thrust, Castiel grunting with the rhythm as he feels heat coiling in his lower abdomen, getting ready to spring.

                When his thighs start to burn from the effort it takes to kneel behind Dean, Castiel wraps his arm around Dean's stomach, pulling him down and turning them both on their sides. He slips out of Dean with the movement, and Dean gasps in surprise when he's laid down so quickly.

                Castiel spoons himself up behind Dean, positioning himself again and plunging back in. Dean's body goes rigid with the penetration, and then melts into the bed again, and he doesn't resist when Castiel reaches over his shoulder, grabbing his chin and turning it so they can kiss, swallowing all of the little moans and gasps bubbling up from his throat. With his free hand, Castiel grabs Dean's leg, lifting it and draping it over his own hip so that he can slide in closer, buried as deep as he possibly can get. The new position causes the head of his cock to pound directly up against Dean's prostate, and Dean cries out, his body jerking.

                Castiel smiles into the kiss and aims for that spot again, enjoying every little whimper and moan he gets out of Dean. He reaches over Dean's hip and wraps his hand around his straining cock, jerking it quick and rough, smearing the steady stream of precome down the whole length of it. Dean's whole body tenses in anticipation, and Castiel knows he's close, so he picks up the pace, all but pounding into Dean, gritting his teeth and snapping his hips forward at an almost brutal pace.

                Dean's whole body rocks with the movement, and all he can do is lay there, back arched, head resting back on Castiel's shoulder as he takes it in stride. It only takes a couple dozen more strokes before Dean shouts in ecstasy, his cock twitching in Cas's grip as he comes, shooting ropes of white all over the comforter in front of him.

                Castiel strokes him through it as Dean rolls his hips forward and back, his hole tightening rhythmically around Cas's cock with every pulse of his orgasm. The fluttering is all Castiel needs, and he moans deep and low, burying his face in Dean's neck and coming inside him, his hips twitching as he buries himself as deep as he possibly can, to feel every inch of his cock surrounded by the tight heat of Dean's body. Dean rocks himself back against Cas, deliberately clenching the muscles of his ass to milk Castiel of every last drop.

                Cas slumps into the bed completely boneless afterwards, his arms still around Dean, hand still absently cradling Dean's spent cock in front of Dean. Dean lays there panting and sweating, Cas's cock still buried in his ass. Castiel doesn't feel inclined to move for a while, and it seems like Dean is feeling the same way. So neither of them make any moves to get up and clean off for at least fifteen minutes. They just lay there slowly coming down from it, Castiel's dick still buried to the hilt inside of Dean, and Dean's cock resting in Cas's palm.

                Castiel closes his eyes and holds Dean as close as he can, smelling the sweat and sex on his skin, too high to really even care that they've made a mess of the bed and each other. He releases Dean's spent dick in favor of trailing his hand up and down Dean's side, touching the scars again. It seems when Castiel is high, he can't get enough of them. This time, Dean has his boxers off though, so Castiel doesn't have to stop at the edge of the clothing. The scars stretch all the way from Dean's ribs, down the side of his hip and ass, and end halfway down his thigh.

                They feel like plastic under Cas's fingers, and he touches them to his heart's content until Dean finally stirs a little, groaning and lifting his head to look back at Cas, his eyes heavy-lidded. He smiles lazily and arches his neck enough to kiss Castiel slow and deep.

                "We should probably get cleaned up," he says once they pull away, his voice hoarse and well-fucked.

                Castiel smiles and nods, his body still feeling like he's floating. He wonders absently how long this high is going to last as he finally shifts back and pulls himself out of Dean's hole. Dean huffs a little breath as he does, and then slowly shifts up onto all four, his joints cracking a little.

                Cas pulls off and knots the used condom, sliding off the bed, and Dean follows. They walk naked down to the bathroom, using washcloths to mop themselves up of come and lube for the second time that night. The washcloths at Castiel's house aren't as soft and expensive as the ones at Bela Talbot's mansion in Johnson, but they work just the same. Cas drops them both in the hamper when they're finished, and Dean yawns long and loud.

                "I wanna go to sleep," he mumbles, his eyes falling closed, and Castiel chuckles, stepping up in front of him and kissing Dean gently on the lips.

                "I second that," he agrees, handing Dean his toothbrush. They brush their teeth as best as they can, although Castiel's mouth still feels kind of numb from the pot.

                When they get back to the bedroom, the candles are still lit and the window is still cracked. Castiel is too tired and lazy right now to blow out all the candles, but he does shut the window, and strips the sheets and blankets off the bed since they're soiled in come. He goes out into the hall and grabs a spare blanket from the linen closet, and when he comes back, Dean is already curled up on the bare mattress completely naked, his eyes closed.

                Cas smiles and drapes the blanket over him, crawling into the bed behind him and wrapping himself around Dean's warm body. Dean murmurs tiredly, turning over so he's facing Cas, their legs tangled together and Dean's head tucked under Castiel's chin.

                Normally, this is the part where Castiel would lay awake staring at Dean's beautiful sleeping face, but right now, his eyes are so heavy he can barely keep them open. He wonders if weed is supposed to have this effect on you, if it's supposed to make you tired, but he doesn't get much of a chance to think about that too in-depth, because in a matter of minutes, he falls into a deep sleep, perfectly sated and perfectly content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this awesome gif set made by camwelgrace on tumblr for this chapter under the link :)  
> [Gif Set](http://camwelgrace.tumblr.com/post/137180550276/hautleys-bend-we-are-all-made-of-stars)


	30. By The Light Of The Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief warning for a fair amount of homophobic slurs in this chapter

**_MARCH_ **

                Castiel turns eighteen years old that Sunday.

                He doesn’t tell Dean that it’s his birthday, mostly because he promised Anna that he’d spend his birthday with her. It’s tradition, after all, that he and Anna spend Castiel’s birthday together. Before this year, Castiel never really had friends with whom he wanted to spend his birthday, but he always had Anna. He knew she’d be upset if he didn’t stick to tradition and spend his eighteenth birthday with her, so he elected to just tell Dean and everyone else later this week, and celebrate with them some other night.

                Dean, being _Dean_ , probably would have insisted on taking Cas out tonight had Castiel told him about his birthday, so for the time being, Castiel keeps it a secret.

                He has a day to recover from the party at Bela Talbot’s mansion, and the subsequent _after_ party he and Dean threw, but on Sunday afternoon, he has to report to work again at Bobby’s shop. It’s not bad. Bobby’s shop is nice. It’s warm, and quiet, and generally, Bobby isn’t up for much conversation, so Castiel mostly just spends his shift alone, working on homework or making origami in between helping customers and maintaining the cleanliness of the small shop.

                Sunday is no different, and his shift passes relatively slow.  

                Yesterday morning, he’d received packages in the mail from Naomi and Bartholomew. Birthday gifts. His father sent him yet another souvenir shop t-shirt, solid black with an intricate Anasazi symbol printed on the front that he picked up in Arizona. Castiel is wearing it now over his regular ratty jeans.

                His mother sent him an entire bag of strange coffee-flavored taffy chunks wrapped in wax paper from somewhere in Costa Rica that she visited during her anthropological study. Cas has been eating them all day, surprised at how much he likes them, and his mouth has had the lingering taste of coffee in it for hours.

                As far as birthdays go, this certainly isn’t the worst he’s ever had. He can’t complain. And Missouri promised to cook him a really nice birthday dinner tonight when he gets home, so all in all, it’s actually been a good day.

                When seven rolls around and it’s time for Castiel to leave, he puts away his origami supplies and pokes his head into the back office to wave goodbye to Bobby. Bobby is busy working something out on the phone with one of the artists who sells merchandise to the shop, and barely looks up as Castiel farewells him. Bobby’s been on the phone for over an hour now – it looks like he’s going to be stuck here for a while.

                Cas flips the sign on the door from **Open** to **Closed** as he steps outside into the darkness of the chilly March evening, mentally scolding himself for not bringing a jacket with him again since it was warmer earlier when he biked to work. Hugging himself in nothing but his Anasazi shirt and jeans, he starts walking towards the street and his bike tethered to the lamp post across the way.

                He jumps a little when he hears a small whistle come from behind him, and glances back.

                The blood drains from his face.

                Alastair is standing there, right next to the alleyway beside Bobby’s shop, and he’s not alone. There are three guys with him that Castiel doesn’t recognize, but one of them is wearing a Johnson State College hoodie, so Castiel assumes they’re older, like Al. Alastair is holding a tire iron in one hand, swinging it lazily like a pendulum, and his mouth is twisted into one of those sickly, feral grins that Castiel has really come to hate since the first time he saw it.

                A small car is idling on the curb in front of them, a thin trail of foggy exhaust puffing slowly from the tailpipe, the trunk hanging wide open. Castiel looks at the car, looks at the three unfamiliar boys, looks at Alastair, and then swallows, not really in the mood to deal with this on his birthday.

                Without a word, he shivers and turns, stepping off the curb to walk towards his bike, hoping that by ignoring the four of them, they’ll just leave him alone.

                “Where do you think you’re going, Castiel?” Alastair’s nasally voice teases, quiet and serpent-like. Cas actually winces a little when that hissing voice shatters the silence of the abandoned street. The only other sounds out here are the gentle rumble of the small car’s engine, and footsteps coming towards Cas.

                He stops walking for a moment, turning back to tell Alastair to just leave him alone, but suddenly Alastair is right behind him.

                All Castiel has a chance to see is the suddenly _enraged_ look in Alastair’s eyes, and the tire iron in his hand being swung towards Castiel’s head.

                He feels the iron connect with the side of his skull, and everything goes black.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean and Sam cook dinner together Sunday night, making some sort of quesadilla concoction in the microwave that turns out to be a huge mess. But they just shrug and eat it anyway off the lid of a pan with plastic forks. There’s not much else to eat in this house besides some condiments in the fridge.

                They settle in the chilly living room and watch crap TV for a while. There are only a couple channels without any static that they can get on their little TV, so they just turn on the Game Show Network and watch some poor sap get his junk whacked by a mallet for answering a trivia question wrong over and over, both of them laughing immaturely with mouths full of cheese and tortilla.

                John comes home smelling like a distillery again just as Dean and Sam finish their food, but thankfully he’s not in a bad mood. He just looks tired. Dean offers him the TV, hoping maybe John will just fall asleep on the couch or something, and John gives him a weary smile, patting his son on the shoulder once in thanks and accepting the remote control that Dean hands up to him.

                They head into Sammy’s room and Sam plunks down at his desk, getting a head start on homework he knows he’ll probably be assigned tomorrow, since he already finished all his homework from last week. Dean rolls his eyes at him, flopping back onto Sam’s bed and grabbing a Rubix cube from his nightstand drawer, trying and failing to solve it for a while, daydreaming idly about Castiel’s lips.

                It’s only about half past seven when Dean feels a vibrating in his pocket, and drops the Rubix cube aside, fishing his phone out of his jeans and squinting at the caller ID. His forehead creases in confusion when he sees that it’s Bobby, and he flips it open, pressing it to his ear.

                “Did you fall and can’t get up?” he asks by way of greeting, grinning when he hears Bobby snort on the other end.

                “I ain’t as frail as ya think boy, I’ll shut that smart mouth right up,” he grumbles in reply, and Dean laughs.

                “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, grandpa.”

                “Stuff it wise ass, or I’ll sick my wife on ya,” Bobby drawls.

                Dean huffs a breath. “Ten-four, old man,” he replies, tucking his arm behind his head and staring up at Sam’s stickered ceiling, “What’s up?”

                He hears Bobby snort again on the other end, and then some rustling. “Ya didn’t happen to pick your boy Castiel up from work, did ya?”

                Dean’s eyebrows press together in confusion. “No, I’ve been home all night. Why?”

                “He left his bike chained up outside,” Bobby replies with a hum.

                Dean purses his lips. “What time he get off?”

                “Seven, like always,” Bobby says, and then makes a little dismissive sound, “Oh well, just thought I’d ask. One a his other friends must a came and got him.”

                Dean chews on his lip as he stares at the ceiling, nodding a little. “Yeah, guess so,” he says, and Bobby hums.

                “Alright, well I’ll talk to ya tomorrow kid,” he farewells, “Say hi to your daddy for me if he’s decent.”

                “Right,” Dean snorts, “See you later Bobby.”

                He hangs up and blows out a breath in a _whoosh_ , fiddling with his phone for a second. Cas told him earlier that he had to spend tonight with Anna. He didn’t say why, but Dean was cool with it. It’s not like they have to hang out _every_ night or anything. Dean wonders if maybe Missouri or someone picked Cas up from work. It’s a little chilly outside – that might explain it.

                He considers calling Castiel for a moment, and even flips open his phone and scrolls to Cas’s contact, but then decides against it. Cas’ll call him if he needs him.

                Dean pushes himself up from Sam’s bed for a second, slipping down the hall to his room to grab Cas’s composition notebook from under his pillow, and carries it back to Sammy’s room, stealing a handful of colored pencils from Sam’s desk drawer.

                Dean lays on his stomach on Sam’s bed and draws a picture of a bear wrestling a squid, because it just sort of feels like a bear-wrestling-a-squid kind of night. When he’s finished with it, he snickers and holds it up for Sammy to look at. Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to his homework, and Dean shrugs, his tongue poking out of his mouth a little as he adds more shading to one of the squid’s tentacles, waiting for John to start snoring down the hall.

 

*       *       *

 

                Coffee. That’s the first thing Castiel becomes aware of, is the taste of coffee, lingering stale and bitter on his tongue. He groans as he comes to, a sharp pain reverberating through his bleeding head. It takes him a couple seconds to blink his eyes open, but it doesn’t do much good. He sees nothing but darkness. It’s so dark that he’s not even sure whether his eyes are open at all.

                And that’s about all he gets a chance to figure out before he hears muffled voices and then bright light washes over him.

                He winces, squinting up into the light, and he realizes he’s in the trunk of a car, and someone just opened it.

                It all comes flooding back to him very suddenly then.

                Alastair and the three unfamiliar guys outside Bobby’s shop. The little car idling on the curb with the trunk open. Alastair hitting him over the head with the tire iron.

                He was knocked out.

                _Fuck_. Castiel feels his chest seize in panic as strong hands wrap around his arms and yank him out of the trunk of the car roughly. The moment he’s out of the trunk, he’s dumped unceremoniously on the ground. Dirt, roots, dead leaves, frost. He’s in the woods somewhere.

                “Looks like we caught ourselves a fairy, boys,” he hears Alastair’s amused voice announce, and the other guys chuckle darkly. Castiel blinks hard, trying to clear his spinning vision, blood dripping in his eye, little dots of light floating in front of his face from whatever lights they were shining on him in the trunk. When he looks up, he sees a couple of the guys he doesn’t recognize holding flashlights.

                One of them reaches down, and grabs the collar of Cas’s new Anasazi t-shirt, using it to yank him up from the ground. Castiel’s breath hitches as he’s pulled up, and he looks first at the face of the guy holding onto him, and then around at the other three, his gaze settling on Alastair’s grinning face a couple feet away.

                “Whattaya say we teach this little faggot a lesson?” the guy holding onto Castiel’s collar says, shaking Cas once like a rag doll. Cas’s forehead creases in confusion, and he grips the guy’s wrist in a pathetic attempt to keep his balance, his head still spinning from the blow with the tire iron.

                He tries to form words, to ask what they’re doing, where he is, what they’re talking about, but before he can say anything, a fist connects with his jaw and sends him sprawling back to the ground. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, his headache growing worse with the new hit as the group of guys starts laughing.

                He’s trying to catch up to the situation, to what’s happening to him.

                This is more than just schoolyard bullies now. Alastair deliberately brought backup to Castiel’s work, and took Cas against his will.

                Isn’t that kidnapping? Was he just kidnapped?

                A foot connects with his stomach, and Castiel gags, hugging his gut as the wind is knocked out of him.

                This is bad. This is _bad_.

                Funny, but the first thought that crosses Castiel’s mind is that bully he beat up in middle school in Texas. The one whose rib punctured his lung. Castiel vowed to himself that he’d never hurt another living soul again after the guilt of beating up that boy ate away at him for months afterwards. He told himself he’d never fight anyone again.

                He’s beginning to question his morals now, though.

                Because this? This is _dangerous_.

                He could be killed. Is that what they brought him out here to do? To kill him?

                Castiel wouldn’t put it past someone like Alastair to do that.

                He digs his fingers into the frozen forest floor, trying to crawl away, and another foot stamps down on his back, shoving him back to the ground. He grunts with the impact, listening to them laugh and call him every variation of homophobic slur in the book.

                It occurs to Castiel that Alastair is doing this to him for a reason. Obviously Al has a sick fixation on Dean, and it’s no secret that Dean and Castiel are together. So of course that’s what this is about. But the other three guys that Castiel doesn’t recognize…it almost sounds like they’re out here beating Castiel up because he’s gay.

                Maybe that’s what Alastair told them to get them to come along? Maybe to them, this is just making an example of the local gay boy, and to Alastair, it’s something else entirely.

                Castiel winces as someone grabs his arm and yanks him up onto his knees, before landing a punch across his face again that just sends him toppling back to the ground once more.

                Okay. To hell with his morals. This has crossed the line.

                He needs to fight back this time.

                Castiel balls his hands into fists, collecting all his wits and shoving aside the terror pooling in his chest.

                When one of the guys goes to kick him again, Castiel rolls out of the way and scrambles to his feet. He ignores the spinning in his disoriented head and takes a split second glance around to see if there’s anywhere he can run. But they’re in a particularly lush area of the forest, and there are too many branches and too much darkness obscuring Castiel’s path.

                So instead, he turns towards his closest attacker, the boy wearing the Johnson State hoodie, and he _lunges_.

                The boy shouts in surprise as he hits the ground on his back with Castiel on top of him. Before Castiel knows what he’s done, he’s already landed three bone-rattling punches across the guy’s face. Cas only hits him enough to catch him off-guard, and then he shoves himself to his feet again, trying to make a break for it towards the car. Beyond the car, there’s a dirt road that he can see in the headlights that are still turned on.

                He barely makes it three steps before someone else is grabbing his arm and a handful of his t-shirt, yanking him back. Castiel rounds on the guy and punches him directly in the nose. The guy yelps in pain as blood erupts from his left nostril, streaming down his face, but Castiel doesn’t even have time to register the fact that he probably just broke that boy’s nose when the hoodie guy and the other unfamiliar boy are grabbing him again.

                Castiel tries to kick out, wrenching his body, shouting at them to let him go, and over the struggle, he can hear Alastair whoop in amusement.

                “Woo-hoo! Novak’s got a little fight in him after all!” Alastair laughs, “Who knew?”

                Castiel growls, his head about ready to explode, it hurts so much. He jams his heel down into the hoodie guy’s foot, managing to wrench himself free, but the boy holding his other arm whacks him across the face with the flashlight he’s still holding. Castiel feels the edge of it split a gash in his cheek, and he’s temporarily weakened.

                As he blinks, shaking his head to try to brush off the hit, bony hands that he _knows_ are Alastair’s grab onto him and jerk him to the side, slamming him back against a thick tree trunk. Alastair’s face appears in front of him, and Castiel tries to wriggle his body free, but Al jams the tire iron across his throat, cutting off his air.

                Castiel gags, his hands coming up to wrap around the iron in an attempt to push it away. Al released it _just_ enough so a thin stream of air can get into Castiel’s lungs, but it’s not enough to keep Castiel’s throat from fluttering in panic.

                “You little fucking bitch!” an enraged scream sounds out from behind Alastair, and the guy whose nose Castiel broke lunges forward, reeling back to take another swing at Castiel’s face. Alastair looks back at the guy and shakes his head, stopping him before the guy can return the favor and break Castiel’s nose in retaliation.

                Castiel squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, white-knuckling the tire iron across his throat as if holding onto it hard enough will keep Alastair from strangling him with it. When he opens his eyes once more, Alastair is looking at him again, chuckling darkly in amusement, cocking his head to the side as he studies Cas’s bloodied face.

                 “This is what happens when you tangle with the wrong people, Castiel,” Al sing-songs, “You just never learn, do you?”

                Castiel’s eyebrows press together in confusion, because even if Alastair is obsessed with Dean, it’s not like Castiel _did_ anything to “steal” Dean away. It’s pretty damn obvious that Dean despises Alastair without Castiel having to say _anything_. This isn’t Cas’s fault.

                “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Castiel chokes out truthfully, voice raspy from the pressure of the tire iron over his throat.

                Alastair shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “Now _that_ I find hard to believe,” he replies lowly, and anger flashes in his eyes again. Al has an unnerving demeanor like that. He could be grinning, but his eyes could be murderous all at the same time. It gives Castiel the creeps usually, but right now, out in these woods, it fucking terrifies him.

                Al finally pulls the tire iron away from his throat, and Castiel gasps for air, keeling over and coughing, holding his neck in one hand as blessedly sweet oxygen fills his lungs again.

                He doesn’t get a chance to really recover for very long, because the guy with the broken nose comes forward and socks him across the face again. This time, though, he doesn’t fall to the ground. Hoodie guy catches him, and the third guy grabs onto his arm, and then Castiel is being dragged deeper into the woods and away from the car. Alastair is sauntering ahead, whistling to himself and swinging that fucking tire iron around like a cane, obviously amused by this whole situation.

                Castiel shakes himself back into his own head after they’ve dragged him a few feet, and starts fighting again. But with three guys holding onto him now, fighting isn’t exactly doing much good anymore. Especially now that they know that Castiel _can_ fight, that’s he’s _not_ just a weak little helpless thing like he’s so often perceived to be. These guys are being careful now, holding onto him tighter, dragging him more forcefully so that Castiel can’t get away again.

                He doesn’t really pay attention to where they’re going until moonlight is suddenly shining through the trees. Castiel looks up when they step out of the forest into a clearing, and he realizes they’re at that place called Ghost Town that Dean told him he used to hang out at. Castiel recognizes the scattered train cars, rundown and vine covered, tipped on their sides.

                The sky is clear tonight, perfectly cloudless, and the moon is almost full, illuminating the night enough that Castiel can make out everything fairly clear. The unfamiliar boys holding onto him still have their flashlights in their hands though, the beams sending stripes of yellow into the silver darkness.

                Castiel is dragged struggling up to the train car closest to the tree line, the one where he saw all the Cancers’ names carved into the wall the night he lost his virginity in the hayloft and ran away from the man with the shotgun. For some reason, the look on Dean’s face the last time they were here flashes through Castiel’s mind, that pale, haunted look, and fear wrenches at Castiel’s heart. There’s something _wrong_ with this place, and now he’s being forcibly brought here for god knows what reasons.

                The three guys all but throw him into the train car, and Castiel goes rolling across the floor from the force of it. He scrambles up onto all fours and flips over, shuffling back, but Alastair is already inside, and the three others are climbing in too. There’s nowhere to go but deeper into the train car, and Castiel backs himself up against old rotting piles of lumber.

                It’s no use trying to escape, as much as Castiel wants to. He keeps fighting – of course he keeps fighting – but hoodie guy grabs his foot and drags him forward so he’s flat on his back, landing another punch across his face, and then another to his diaphragm.

                The rest of them jump in and start hitting Castiel too, even Alastair, swinging the tire iron at his legs and groin.

                As Castiel tries to shield himself from the hits while he’s passed from one guy to the next, yanked to his feet, thrown against the wall, knocked back down to the floor, he fleetingly thinks of articles he’s seen online, about young gay boys kidnapped by their peers and taken out to the middle of nowhere and beaten to death.

                Maybe that’s not Alastair’s motive here, but the three guys he brought with him certainly seem like the type of redneck scum to do something like that, with the way they keep calling him a _faggot_ and jibing and taunting about all the dick Castiel takes and how much he just loves all that sweet cock up his ass. How he’s some big daddy’s little bitch, and they don’t want any fucking fairies in their town.

                When he starts to get lightheaded, and is in too much pain to try and fight back anymore, only weakly defending himself with raised arms, the guy with the broken nose reaches out and grabs an old, dusty beer bottle from the many piles of bottles and trash discarded on the floor. He clasps his large hand around Castiel’s chin and digs his fingers into the hinges of his jaw, prying Cas’s mouth open and shoving the glass neck of the bottle in and past his teeth. Castiel’s eyes go wide and he chokes, gagging, tears springing at the corners of his eyes as the bottle is forced down his throat, splitting his lip.

                “That’s it, choke on it faggot,” the guy growls, “Isn’t that what you people like, choking on dick?”

                Castiel tries to wrench his head out of the way, his teeth clinking against the sides of the bottle, and he can barely breathe around all the glass being shoved down his gullet. He tried not to close his mouth around the bottle, tries to keep his jaw as loose as possible, the hinges cramping, because he’s afraid the glass is going to break in his mouth and he’ll swallow shards of it.

                But before it comes to that, the bottle is ripped out of his mouth again and Alastair appears in front of his face. A strange, broken little croak comes out of Castiel’s throat uncontrollably as he catches his breath, and he tries to back away from Alastair’s face as Al straddles his lap and the other three guys back off a bit to watch, taking a break from their punching. Castiel’s head thumps back against the wall of the train car where he’s landed propped up, and Alastair gets within an inch of his face, looking right into his teary eyes.

                It’s only when Cas gets a moment to breathe that he realizes he’s started crying. They’re silent tears, dripping down his bruised cheeks, but he can’t pretend that it’s just blood anymore. He feels a little humiliated, but mostly he’s just terrified, because he can’t stop thinking that he might die tonight. It seems silly to think about, but he can’t think of any other outcome to this textbook-hate-crime of a situation.

                Al hums a little, and one of his hands comes up, trailing down Cas’s cheek, fingertips wiping through the trails of tears and blood. Castiel growls and jerks his face out of the way, and Alastair grabs him by the neck, swinging him to the side and slamming him down flat on his back on the floor again. Castiel coughs as Al’s hand grips his throat tightly, long fingernails digging crescent indents into the side of his neck.

                The other guys are laughing and carrying on, and hoodie guy pulls a matchbook out of his pocket, flicking it open and lighting up one of the little sticks. Al leans away just a bit, and Castiel jerks in shock as hoodie guy throws the lit match at his face. The hot tip of the match bounces off Castiel’s cheek, a little sting where it touched, but his tears put it out before it could do more damage. All of them laugh, amused by the way Castiel tries to free himself from Alastair’s hand around his neck pinning him to the dirty floor.

                Cas can only watch and cry silently as hoodie guy lights up another match, flicking it at him again. This one lands on Cas’s chest underneath Al, burning a hole in his new Anasazi shirt and biting at his skin before the weak flame is extinguished by a stray wisp of wind.

                Castiel cries out as the next one lands on his bare arm, burning him more thoroughly this time before it goes out too. This reminds Castiel a bit of the day that Alastair lit him on fire, so many months ago, and he turns hateful eyes back up at where Al is looming over him, watching every minute flicker in Cas’s expression, enjoying the way he’s crying and trying to get away.

                The hoodie guy flicks one more lit match at Cas, and he flinches as it bounces off of him, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Alastair, glaring up at him through his tears, hating him with every fiber of his being. Al laughs a little when he sees the fire in Castiel’s eyes, and he leans down really close to his face, ignoring Castiel’s hands that come up and try to shove him away.

                “You’re feistier than Dean,” Al says, keeping his voice low enough that the other guys can’t hear him over their laughing and cheering, “I like it.”

                Castiel feels a hurricane of anger explode in his chest, because he _knew_ it. He _knew_ this was about Alastair’s fixation on Dean. Maybe the other guys here don’t know that, but he does. He tries to say something, but Alastair tightens his hand around Castiel’s neck, cutting off his words as Castiel struggles under his weight.

                Al makes a thinking sound, pursing his lips. “Dean fought a lot harder than you, though,” he says matter-of-factly, still speaking quietly enough that the other guys aren’t even paying attention to anything he’s saying. Castiel’s forehead creases briefly in confusion. What’s that supposed to mean, _Dean fought harder_? Dean fought harder _when_?

                The hoodie guy flicks another lit match at Castiel, aiming below where Alastair is leaning really close, and the match bounces off Cas’s hairline, landing on the floor and flickering for a couple seconds before it dies. He can feel someone down near his feet, probably the third guy, taking off his shoes, although Castiel has no idea why they feel the need to take his shoes.

                Alastair touches the tears running sideways down Castiel’s temples again, and Cas chokes as the hand around his throat tightens even more, sobbing once in helplessness.

                “I like you, Castiel,” Alastair states with a little chuckle, “You cry prettier than he does.”

                What the hell is he talking about?

                “Actually…well, maybe not,” Al goes on, correcting himself, murmuring low, “Nobody really cries prettier than our boy Dean, do they?”

                Castiel feels another wave of anger roll through his chest at every mention of Dean. He has no idea what any of what Alastair is saying means, but it still pisses him off, despite his fear, because he wants Al to leave Dean the fuck alone. He’s protective of Dean.

                In a burst of rage, Cas swings up and lands a pretty pathetic punch that glances weakly off Alastair’s jaw, and while it probably didn’t hurt Al all that much, it still pisses him off enough to growl and lean back, backhanding Castiel once across the face before releasing his throat and flipping him over so he’s laying on his stomach.

                Then Alastair is on top of him again, straddling his sides, pinning Cas facedown to the train car floor, and the tire iron slips beneath Cas’s neck, pulling tightly over his throat once again. Castiel’s back arches a bit with how hard Alastair is yanking on the tire iron, creating a bar that completely cuts off Castiel’s air. He gags again, choking, tears streaming steadily down his face, and he claws at the floorboards, at the tire iron, at anything, trying to get free.

                He can’t _breathe_.

                Al leans down close to his ear again as Castiel vaguely sees another lit match bounce in front of his face, and listens to the other guys laughing in the background.

                “You know something, you little bitch?” Alastair growls, his lips brushing Castiel’s ear as Cas struggles to breathe, “If you weren’t around, Dean would be warming _my_ bed every night instead of yours.”

                Spots are starting to dance in Cas’s vision and he feels tingling in his fingertips as he chokes.

                “Now tell me, what makes you so fucking special?” Alastair asks, hatred and malice in his voice.

                Cas’s vertebrae crack and pop a little as Al yanks the tire iron up harder, pressing it even tighter across Castiel’s airway and making his back curve at a painful angle up from the floorboards. His vision is swimming, and he feels his body slowly getting weaker and weaker the longer he goes without air.

                Al is saying something else, but there’s ringing in his ears now, and Cas can’t even pay attention to the words anymore, too busy trying to keep his eyes open as he struggles weakly to get the tire iron off of his throat.

                In the background, the laughter and cheering of the three unfamiliar boys dies down a little, and Castiel distantly hears one of them say, “Whoa Al, back off a little. You said we were just gonna scare the kid.”

                Alastair doesn’t even seem to hear him, too busy strangling Castiel with the tire iron and enjoying every little gag and gurgle that comes out of Cas’s blue-tinged lips.

                “Al, seriously…” one of the other guys starts to protest weakly.

                Still nothing. Alastair doesn’t stop. The tire iron stays exactly where it is, breaking blood vessels beneath Cas’s delicate skin and crushing his trachea. Castiel’s eyes slip closed as his vision starts to black out and a dull, hollow hum reverberates low and painful in his head.

                “Dude, Alastair, stop! You’re killing him!”

                Castiel goes limp, barely registering what’s happening around him.

                He hears a dull thud, and then suddenly, Alastair is gone. The tire iron clangs as it falls away from his throat and Castiel’s head drops back to the floor.

                Air.

                He can breathe.

                He inhales slowly at first, just a little, and then all at once, too quickly, a terrible, croaking sound, rattling in his throat like he swallowed a bunch of Lego blocks. He coughs weakly, his lungs burning, skin clammy, lips numb and cold, and all he can do is lay there limply with his eyes closed as the ringing in his head slowly fades into the background.

                Distantly, he hears arguing. When he cracks one eyes open to a slit, he sees blurred figures. One of them is skeletal, and he knows that’s Alastair, and the others are shouting at him and holding him back when he tries to come near Castiel again.

                Castiel catches the tail end of the conversation when the ringing in his ears finally subsides enough.

                “We didn’t sign up for this!” one of the guys shouts, “You said all we were gonna do was give the faggot a little scare, not fucking _kill_ him for Christ’s sake!”

                “I need to teach the little shit a lesson!” Al argues back, and he sounds furious about the fact that he was just interrupted.

                When Al tries to climb back on top of Castiel, the others grab him again to keep him from doing so, and one of them threatens to call the cops if they don’t leave right now. Castiel lets his eyes slip closed again, completely drained, pain echoing throughout his entire body.

                He hears the argument draw to a tense close, and then suddenly their footsteps are departing. Cas hears them head across the wooden train car towards the opening, hollow thuds from their footsteps, and then the dull crunch as they jump down from the opening onto the frozen ground below.

                Cas cracks one eye open again one more time, unsure whether he’s just imagining that they’re leaving. He sees Alastair’s silhouette standing in the opening of the train car, looking back at him, and if Castiel could see his face in the darkness, he’d probably see hatred. Then, after that hesitation, Al turns away with an angry growl and mutters, “This isn’t over,” under his breath, jumping down out of the train car and following the three other guys as they head towards the woods.

                Castiel closes his eyes again and just lays there, his throbbing, bruised neck touching the cold metal of the tire iron underneath him, skin sticking to the floor with blood and tears. When the crunch of their footsteps disappears into the night, all that’s left is the sound of Castiel’s shallow, ragged breathing, like sandpaper over rusted metal.

                He has no idea how long he lays there bleeding and half-conscious. He feels too hot and too cold all at once, and he thinks he might be a little stunned. Everything happened so fast. He was just leaving work, and now he’s laying on the train car floor at Ghost Town with bruises ringing his neck and a bleeding head wound.

                He lays there long enough that the moon dips lower in the sky, low enough that it’s shining into the opening of the train car, painting the inside of Castiel’s closed eyelids a pale silver-pink. He cracks his eyes open again and stares at the moon for a while, trying to blink away the fuzzy feeling in his head, trying to decide when the best moment would be for him to move.

                When he hears the distant yipping and barking and howling of a pack of coyotes far off and deep in the woodsy wilderness, that’s when he decides he needs to get out of here. As much as he’d love to just give in to the weakness of his muscles post-strangulation, and just lay here and fall asleep, he needs to get the hell out of here. The pack of coyotes far off in the distance sounds like a bunch of screaming women being murdered, and he shivers a little.

                When he starts shivering, he doesn’t stop, and his whole body vibrates as he finally moves, sliding one arm up and pushing at the floor, lifting himself up onto all fours. A wave of fatigue and dizziness washes over him, and he hangs his bleeding head, closing his eyes and breathing through it. Every time he swallows it feels like he’s swallowing nails, his throat is so sore. He tilts back so that he’s sitting upright on his heels, and just blinks into the darkness for a moment, trying to stop shaking and contemplating how the hell he’s going to stand up.

                When he turns his head a little, looking at the wall beside him, he blinks and the first thing he sees is Dean’s name, scratched into the wood.

**_Dean Winchester  
               (Dr. Sexy M.D.)_ **

                Castiel just stares at the name carved there for a couple minutes, and he feels a little twist in his stomach.

                Dean. He wants Dean.

                He wants Dean right now.

                That’s the only thing that makes him move. He reaches out and uses the wall for support, clawing at the old wood as he shakily climbs to his feet. He nearly falls again as another wave of weakness and fatigue washes over him, and his pounding head protests the movement, but after giving himself just a minute or two to breathe and get used to standing, he hugs his shivering body and takes tentative steps towards the opening of the train car.

                When he gets to the edge, he all but _falls_ out, landing on his side on the frozen ground below. But he doesn’t let himself lay there for more than a couple seconds before pushing himself to his feet again, listening to the haunting screaming of the coyotes in the distance. Castiel’s vision is a little blurred, and he touches his fingertips to the wound on his head where Alastair hit him with the tire iron to knock him out at Bobby’s shop. The whole area is swollen and bleeding and tender, and when he touches it, he gets dizzy again.

                Gulping back nausea and blinking his vision clear as well as he can, he takes a few steps towards the forest, and then breaks into a slow jog. Every step is agony, and he realizes he’s only wearing socks, that one of the guys stole his shoes, but he forces himself to keep going, breathing raggedly, and thinks about Dean as he gets himself the hell away from this fucking awful place.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean is in the living room quietly slipping the remote out of John’s limp hand to turn off the TV. John’s snoring is soft and shallow, and Dean takes the blanket Mary made off the back of the couch and drapes it over his father, hoping that John will stay here for the night instead of getting up sometime in the early hours of the morning and making a bunch of noise that’ll no doubt wake Dean up when he has school tomorrow.

                Yawning, he switches off the light in the living room on his way out, treading lightly and avoiding parts of the floor that he knows creak when you step on them. Taking one last glance back at John, Dean turns and starts heading down the hallway to his room to go to sleep.

                And that’s when he hears the weak knock on the front door.

                He stops walking, looking back at the door in confusion, standing frozen in the hallway. What the hell? Dean glances to the side, squinting at the clock glowing on the stove in the kitchen. It’s half past ten, who the hell is visiting at half past ten?

                When the knock sounds again, quiet but insistent, Dean takes a step towards the door, wincing when his toe catches on the edge of a loose floorboard and makes it creak just a bit. He glances into the living room again on his way past it, checking to make sure John is still snoring there with his mouth hanging open, probably drooling on the arm of the couch, and then quickens his footsteps when the knock sounds again for a third time.

                Dean hesitates when he grabs the doorknob. This is one of those times he really wishes they had a peephole or a window or something on their front door. He twists the knob and pulls the door open slowly.

                The dim light from the hallway washes over Castiel standing there on the other side of the door, and Dean lets loose a sigh of relief.

                The relief, however, only lasts for a fraction of a second before he sees the state Castiel is in.

                The first thing Dean notices is the look in Castiel’s eyes, a fucking _shattered_ look. Only after he sees that does Dean see all the blood.

                “Holy fuck, Cas! What the hell happened?” he demands, forgetting to be quiet for a second as shock overcomes him at the sight of Castiel.

                Cas is hugging himself, shivering, and when Dean looks down, he sees that Castiel is missing his shoes, and his clothes are torn and dirty.

                “I’m sorry,” Castiel says, and his voice is hoarse like he just chain smoked a fucking factory, “I-I didn’t want to…I wanted to see you. I didn’t want Anna to see me this way.”

                Dean steps out onto the front stoop, immediately winding his arms around Castiel and pulling him to his chest. “It’s okay,” he says, lowering his voice a little, “It’s okay, just tell me what happened to you.”

                Castiel rests his forehead on Dean’s shoulder, and he’s shivering so hard Dean feels like he’s going to crumble to dust. His breathing is so shallow and gritty that Dean actually winces, feeling a painful tug in his heart at seeing Cas this way.

                “Alastair…” is all Cas whispers in reply, and Dean wants to pretend he didn't hear it when Cas is speaking so quietly.

                But he heard it. He fucking heard it.

                A wildfire of _rage_ explodes through his whole body, and his grip tightens around Castiel to the point where Cas actually whimpers a little. Dean loosens his hold a bit.

                “Alastair did this to you?”

                Castiel nods, lifting his head a little and looking at Dean’s face. His eyes are blank for a moment, like he’s in shock, and then all of the sudden he bursts into tears.

                Dean feels his heart split in two when he sees Cas crying. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Castiel cry before.

                Cas buries his face in Dean’s neck and his arms wind around Dean’s shoulders, and he just sobs there for a while. All Dean can do is hold onto him, and he feels a lump form in his throat. Not just of sadness, but of guilt, and anger. This is all his fault. Alastair wouldn’t have done this to Castiel had it not been for Dean.

                “I thought…they were going…to kill me,” Castiel chokes out through his sobs.

                Dean grinds his teeth in rage. It’s been a while since he’s been so angry that he saw red, but the blindness is creeping into the edges of his vision now. Oh _god_ , he wants to tear Alastair apart.

                He tries to swallow back the sudden violent hatred and fury desperately clawing up the back of his throat, because Castiel needs him right now. Cas is standing here crying in his arms, and Dean needs to not focus on how pissed he is at Alastair, and pay attention more to helping Cas.

                Gritting his teeth and swallowing hard, Dean rocks Cas for a minute and then pulls him away gently, shushing him and brushing his hair back from his forehead, carefully avoiding a bloody wound on the side of his head.

                “Ssh, Cas, come on,” he whispers, “Calm down, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

                Castiel sniffles and hiccups once, his throat sounding so raw and shredded. Dean slides his hand down Cas’s arm and twines their fingers together.

                “Let’s go inside, okay?” he says, and Castiel chokes back more sobs and nods weakly, swaying a little on his socked feet. Dean catches him when Cas tilts a little too far to one side, and he eyes the wound on Castiel’s head with worry. Cas might need some stitches. He could have a concussion.

                Turning, he leads Cas gently into the house, shushing him again and closing the door. He prays to whatever god is listening that John is still passed out on the couch, and his prayers are answered when they slip by the living room and Dean peeks in to see John’s mouth still hanging open, quiet snores growing ever louder as he falls into deeper sleep.

                Castiel eyes John’s sleeping form and sniffs quietly, trying to choke back his tears, and Dean thinks Cas realizes that they need to be really quiet right now. When they pass by Sammy’s room where Sam is asleep too, Dean shuts his door softly before pulling Cas by the hand back into the bathroom at the end of the hall.

                He closes and locks the door behind him before turning on the light and ushering Cas over to the counter, beckoning for him to sit on the empty space next to the sink. Castiel does so without protest, sniffling quietly, but successfully stifling the last of his sobs. Dean tries not to think about the last time Castiel was in this bathroom unconscious in the tub, in a remarkably similar state to what he's in now.

                Dean wets a washcloth in the sink and then steps up in front of where Castiel is sitting on the counter, slouching a little and looking tired and weary. Dean tucks a knuckle under his chin and lifts his head up so he can get a better look at the large, swollen gash on the side of Cas’s forehead, near his temple. In the harsh lighting of the bathroom, Dean can make out other wounds he couldn’t see before. There’s another smaller gash on Cas’s cheek, and purpling bruises littering his entire face, his jaw, his cheekbones. He has a split lip and a bloody nose, and when Dean glances down at the rest of his body, there are little red marks on his arm and through a hole in the front of his shirt that Dean’s never seen before.

                When Dean trails his eyes back up to Castiel’s face to clean some of the blood away, his gaze stops at Cas’s neck.

                He feels his stomach drop.

                There are bruises wrapping Castiel’s throat like he was strung up with a noose. A too-perfect bar-shaped bruise creates a frighteningly dark black stripe across the middle of his neck, but then there are other lesser bruises in the shape of fingers.

                But that’s not what makes nausea churn deep in Dean’s stomach.

                It’s the fingernail marks on the side of Cas’s neck. Four distinct, deep, gouged crescents adorn the side of Cas’s neck like a bad tattoo, and Dean actually has to takes a half a step back because he’s worried that he’s about to puke all over Castiel’s lap.

                Dean knows those fingernail marks.

                Realistically, they could be _anybody’s_ fingernail marks. But Dean knows they’re Alastair’s. His scars flare up in sudden phantom pains as he remembers how fucking agonizing it was when Al dug his long, dirty, nasty fingernails into Dean’s scars that night at Ghost Town.

                When Dean hunches over marginally, gulping, his face draining of color and his eyes wide as he stares at the marks, Castiel shifts a little.

                “Dean?” he asks, “Are you alright?”

                Dean blinks, swallowing a few times, his throat seizing, and he looks up into Castiel’s eyes again. They’re bloodshot and bruised, but still so fucking _blue_ that it helps calm Dean down just a fraction.

                He huffs a shaky breath. “I should be the one asking you that,” he points out, and Castiel sniffs, shaking his head and looking down at his hands in his lap.

                Dean grits his teeth, pulling himself together, anger, nausea, guilt, and sadness warring inside him. He reaches out and tucks his knuckle under Cas’s chin again, lifting his head back up and touching the wet washcloth gently to his forehead. Cas winces, but doesn’t pull away, and Dean gentles his touch just a bit.

                As he slowly cleans away all the blood, revealing the smattering of bruises and cuts beneath, he looks into Castiel’s watery eyes. “Tell me what happened,” he says softly, his voice tight.

                Castiel looks at him, swallowing with a click, and sniffs again. He hesitates briefly, and it gives Dean a second to wipe away the thin trail of blood on his split lip before Cas speaks.

                “They were waiting for me outside of work,” he says, and Dean fights his boiling anger, trying to keep it at a low simmer.

                “They?”

                Cas glances at him. “Three boys I’ve never seen before. I think they were from Johnson State,” he clarifies, shaking his head a little, “And Alastair.”

                Dean bristles at even the mere mention of the name.

                He remembers the phone call he got from Bobby earlier, asking whether Dean had picked Cas up from work since his bike was still there. _God_ , Dean feels so _stupid_. He should have called Cas to make sure he was okay.

                “Alastair knocked me out, and I woke up in the trunk of a car,” Cas says quietly.

                Dean studies his eyes as he cleans his face. “Was it a little tan Volvo?” he asks, and Castiel looks at him, his forehead creasing as little as tries to remember.

                “I-I think so,” he replies. Dean wants to scream. That’s Alastair’s car.

                Cas looks away again, his gaze settling absently on the bathtub across the room. “When they pulled me out we were in the woods and…I tried to fight back but there were too many of them.”

                Dean can guess what they did. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where all these bruises came from. Castiel got the ever-loving shit beat out of him tonight.

                “They took me to that place…Ghost Town,” Castiel says, and Dean feels himself blanch all over again, his blood running cold, “Alastair got really rough and whispered some…some weird things in my ear.”

                Dean swallows convulsively. “What did he say?”

                Castiel looks up at him again, and he looks a little torn. He studies Dean for a moment, and then swallows, shaking his head minutely. “I don’t remember,” he replies, and Dean gently wipes the last of the blood away from Cas’s cheek. “But Alastair got too rough, crossed a line, and the others pulled him off of me...and they left. That’s all that happened.”

                Dean looks at Cas for a moment, studying his face, and he kind of wants to cry right now but he can’t. That’s just fucking selfish.

                “I’m so sorry Cas,” he whispers, “This is all my fault.”

                Castiel’s eyes snap up to his face, and Cas shakes his head firmly. “This is _not_ your fault,” he says, his ragged voice stern, “Alastair did this to me. This is his fault.”

                Dean wants to protest, his guilt breaking free and clawing up his throat, but Castiel cuts him off with a cold, shaky finger to his lips. Dean stares at him, feeling completely torn, but at the adamant look in Cas’s eyes, Dean once again swallows back the guilt and reaches up, wrapping his hand around Cas’s and kissing his fingers. Cas sways forward, still a little unsteady, and presses his lips gently to Dean’s. Dean doesn’t deepen the kiss at all, mindful of Castiel’s split lip, but he does place his hand on the side of Cas’s face, stroking his bruised cheek gently with his thumb.

                When they pull away, Cas lets out an exhausted sigh, gripping Dean’s hand tightly and leaning his face into Dean’s touch. “God, I’m so happy to see you,” Cas says, and Dean huffs out a little laugh, a tiny bloom of warmth unfurling in his heart.

                His eyes trail up to the gash on Cas’s forehead, which he assumes must have happened when Alastair knocked him out. There’s fresh blood beading at the edges, and Dean tilts Cas’s face to the side just a bit, leaning in and getting a closer look at the gash. It’s really deep.

                “Damn it, I need to get you to the hospital,” Dean says, and Castiel blinks at him. Dean takes his face in both hands and looks closely at his eyes. His pupils look okay, but Dean doesn’t want to take any chances, and his forehead needs stitches anyway.

                “Come on,” Dean says, stepping away from the counter and pulling Cas along gently. Castiel is either too out of it and exhausted to protest, or he just doesn’t care, and he follows along quietly as Dean switches off the bathroom light and opens the door.

                He ducks into his own room briefly, just pulling on his boots and grabbing his leather jacket to drape around Cas. Dean has his sweats and long-sleeved t-shirt on right now; he figures Cas needs the jacket a lot more than him.

                They sneak quietly down the hall, and Dean stops to lock Sammy’s door before they go, just in case John wakes up in a less and ideal mood. His father is still sleeping on the couch when they pass by, and Dean carefully and quietly takes the keys to the Impala from the table in the living room where John tossed them, and then he and Cas quietly slip out the front door and walk over to the detached garage.

                During the short drive to the ER, Castiel borrows Dean’s cell phone to make a call to Missouri. Dean can hear Missouri’s breathy, comforting voice muffled in the receiver, and Castiel just tells her the truth. Or…most of it anyway. He says he got jumped outside of work, and that he’s okay and that he’s spending the night at Dean’s. Dean smiles a little when he hears Missouri insisting on coming to get him, because Missouri is the most overprotective mother of a woman that he has ever seen. Castiel manages to convince her that he’s fine, and eventually she relents. He promises to see her in the morning before hanging up and giving Dean his phone back.

                When they get to the hospital, the waiting room is completely empty. Just a fish tank and blue plastic chairs. Dean sits Cas down next to the tank and goes up to the counter to sign Castiel in and get him some papers and stuff. Dean has been here enough times that he knows the drill. When he turns to go back over to Cas, Castiel is talking quietly to a little clownfish floating near the glass.

                Dean snorts. “Friend of yours?” he asks as he sits down next to Castiel.

                Cas shrugs weakly. “Something like that,” he replies with a small huff of laughter.

                When the nurse comes out of the sliding doors and beckons for them to follow her to the back, Dean helps Castiel stand up, and they shuffle into a room with gurneys that are separated by curtains.

                “Castiel Novak! You remember me?” the pretty, dark-haired nurse greets with a bright smile.

                Castiel offers a small smile of his own. “Of course. Hello Tessa,” he says, wincing as he climbs up and sits on the edge of the gurney. Dean studies the two of them, wondering how Castiel became so acquainted with the nurses here. Dean doesn’t want to think about the fact that maybe it’s his own fault that Cas seems so at home here in this ER, from everything that happened last semester.

                He swallows and tries to shake those thoughts off, reaching out and taking his leather jacket off of Cas before sitting down in an empty stool out of the way. Tessa chats sweetly while she numbs Cas’s head and stitches him up, before examining him to make sure he doesn’t need stitches anywhere else. She bandages a burn on Cas’s arm and another on his chest that Dean desperately wants to know about, because Cas didn’t really go into too much detail about everything that happened to him tonight. Dean doesn’t ask though. He thinks maybe Cas is trying to just forget it all happened.

                Dean can’t keep his eyes off the fingernail marks on the side of Cas’s bruised neck though. Every time he happens to glance at them, he’s caught staring for a while before snapping out of it again. He needs to get the fuck over it. Castiel is _hurt_ right now. Alastair _hurt_ him. And Dean can’t just sit here and pretend that this isn’t his fault, because it is. He knows it is, however unintentional.

                He thinks back to what happened at Bela’s party on Friday, with Alastair in the pantry. The way Dean overpowered him, told him he hated him. In Alastair’s sick and twisted mind, that probably sounded like a _rejection_. Although Dean’s made it pretty fucking clear from the start that he wants nothing to do with Alastair. Al should’ve gotten that message loud and fucking clear that night at Ghost Town when Dean nearly bit his tongue off.

                Alastair came after Castiel because of Dean. This is all so fucked up.

                When Tessa finishes fixing Castiel up, she has Dr. Garrison come in and check him over. By the time they’ve finally finished nearly two hours later, Castiel has been diagnosed with a concussion, and Dean’s been briefed on everything he needs to do to make sure Castiel stays safe for a while. They let him know that Cas can sleep, but needs to be awoken every couple hours just in case, and to keep his bandages clean and dry, etcetera.

                All Dean can think is…the only way for Castiel to stay safe is if Alastair is fucking obliterated from the face of this planet.

                Castiel takes care of whatever he needs to involving insurance and such at the front desk, and then they pile back into the Impala and head back to Dean’s house. Dean doesn’t want to leave Sammy alone there for too long, but he also doesn’t want to let Cas out of his sight. During the drive, Castiel slides across the seat and leans against Dean’s side, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder and very nearly nodding off before they even make it to the house.

                They sneak in quietly, and everything is as they left it. John is still passed out on the couch, although he’s snoring really loudly now, his mouth hanging open unattractively. Dean tiptoes past him and sets the keys back on the living room table where he got them, and then he and Cas go to Dean’s bedroom to get some rest.

                Cas strips down to his boxers, but Dean keeps his clothes on, just because he doesn’t have anything but his shirt sleeve hiding his cigarette burns right now. They curl up on Dean’s mattress on the floor, laying there face to face, practically nose to nose, legs tangled together. The bed is tiny, especially compared to Cas’s queen-sized one that they normally sleep in together, but it works.

                “Dean?” Castiel asks, his voice sleepy.

                “Yeah?”

                Castiel yawns, wincing as the movement strains his battered face. “Let’s not to go school tomorrow, okay?”

                Dean chuckles a little, glancing at the clock. It’s past one in the morning. “Okay,” he agrees.

                Castiel hums and nuzzles his face into the pillow a bit, sliding a half an inch closer to Dean.

                They’re quiet for a few minutes, and then Castiel pulls in a little breath, seeming to hesitate for a moment. As Dean stares at his face in the semi-darkness, Castiel’s eyes fall open, and he stares back for a second.

                “It’s my birthday today,” Cas says, and Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

                “You’re kidding.”

                Cas shakes his head no, and then his forehead creases and he looks back, wincing at the strain of turning his bruised neck. “Well…I suppose my birthday is over now. It ended at midnight.”

                Dean feels his gut clench in sympathy. “Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t get you anything.”

                Castiel smiles a little, shaking his head and scooting even closer to Dean, clinging to him tightly. “You _did_ get me something,” he points out, holding onto Dean pointedly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “I’m a pretty piss poor birthday present, Cas,” he says, and Castiel makes a little noise, closing his eyes and nuzzling closer.

                “I disagree,” he replies.

                Dean feels a tiny smile tug at the corner of his mouth as he looks at Castiel’s bruised and bandaged face. He reaches one hand up, trailing it gently through Cas’s hair, waiting and watching while Cas slowly falls asleep.

                Dean looks at the clock, blinking hard to keep himself awake. He has to wake Cas up in a couple hours anyway. Doctor’s orders.

                He lays there for a while just staring at Cas, playing with his soft hair and listening to him breathe. There’s a grating, _off_ sound to Cas’s breathing, from the damage done to his throat tonight, and as Dean listens to it, his warm mood fizzles and dies again, replaced once more by that seething rage.

                As carefully as he can, he slips away from Cas, sliding off the mattress and making sure the blankets are tucked completely around Castiel’s sleeping form before grabbing the composition notebook again.

                He’s been using drawing in this notebook as a means to distract himself for a while now. He’s hoping maybe it’ll work right now too. Because as much as he wants to tears out Alastair’s internal organs one by one, there’s nothing he can do about it right now.

                Dean sees that red crawling into the corners of his vision again, feels his blood begin to boil with animalistic fury, and he sits cross-legged on the floorboards, opening the notebook to a fresh page and grabbing a pencil from his backpack to draw. He uses the light of the moon and the streetlamp outside to see by, and he draws the first thing that comes to mind. Of course, the first thing that comes to mind is ripping Alastair to shreds.

                So that’s what he draws. He draws eight different versions of himself, one with black eyes and one with sharp teeth, one on all fours with clawed hands and feet, and one with a large blade in hand and wrathful eyes. He draws all these different versions of himself tearing Alastair apart, with Al laying a bloody mess in the middle, screaming in pain. It satisfied something sick deep within Dean for now, and as the night draws on, he calms down a bit more.

                He’s beginning to contemplate whether or not he should take Sammy’s advice and give this notebook to Cas someday. He’s not sure he wants Cas to see some of the intimate inner workings of his brain, like this drawing. He’s written and drawn some pretty damn personal stuff in here. But hey, maybe this book of drawings and writings will make a good late birthday present for Cas someday.

                The silence is interrupted by a small whimper, and Dean looks up from the notebook and over to where Castiel is curled up asleep on the bed. Cas’s face is set in a bit of a pout, and as Dean watches, he twitches a little in his sleep and whimpers again.

                It’s not anything Dean hasn’t seen before.

                Sometimes Castiel makes little noises in his sleep. Dean has noticed that. He hasn’t said anything to Cas about it, but he does wonder about it. Does Castiel have nightmares too?

                After a night like the one he just endured, Dean wouldn’t really blame the guy.

                But this isn’t the first time he’s noticed Cas whimpering in his sleep.

                It makes him wonder…is Castiel as scared as Dean is? Lord _knows_ Dean must whimper in his sleep sometimes, and he supposes Castiel has probably heard it. It breaks Dean’s heart as much as it gives him a strange sense of comfort to hear Castiel whimpering in his sleep too. It makes Dean think that perhaps he’s not the only one who’s deeply scarred here.

                Maybe he and Castiel are more alike than he thinks.

                Still though, he sets the notebook aside and crawls over to the bed, laying down again in front of Castiel and carding his fingers through Cas’s hair again until the whimpering stops and Castiel’s stressed features smooth out again to peaceful sleep.

                Dean glances at the clock to check how much longer he has to wait until he needs to wake Castiel up because of the concussion, and then settles into the pillow again, staring at his sleeping face.

                It calms him down enough that he’s not seeing red creeping into his vision anymore, but as Dean lays here, he still can’t help but fantasize about the feeling of Alastair’s warm, diseased blood dripping down his hands, and how satisfying it would be to fucking slit that bastard’s throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a short little fic this week called [Hops](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091848) for a writing challenge thing on Facebook, if anyone wants to check it out while you wait for the next chapter :) 
> 
> And everyone should definitely check out these two really AWESOME artworks made by fans <3 --
> 
>  [Art 1](http://the-eye-of-the-assbutt.tumblr.com/post/120957509601/im-sorry-this-is-bad-but-i-cant-art-on-a)
> 
>  [Art 2](http://natterbugg.tumblr.com/post/120821683354/coldinthestudio-nataliebostwick-some-quick)


	31. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! And for any typos :)

                There are gentle fingers carding through his hair. That’s the first thing Castiel becomes aware of as he’s pulled slowly and peacefully from his sleep. The second, is that everything smells like _Dean_. The earthy tang of cigarette smoke, lemon-lime body wash, sweet freckled skin the scent of rainfall, coffee.

                Castiel cracks his eyes open barely, seeing nothing but blurred shapes for a moment. When he blinks a few times to clear his vision, Dean’s face appears before him, and a small, lazy smile touches at the corners of Castiel’s mouth. “Good morning,” he whispers, his throat sore, and Dean smiles, leaning in and pressing their lips together.

                Cas is too tired to really participate much, but he does part his lips and allow Dean to slide his tongue inside, nipping gently at Dean’s plump lower lip. Dean smiles into the gentle kiss, shifting over from where he’s kneeling on the floor, sliding on top of Castiel, but hovering with his body a few inches over Cas so as not to put pressure on any of Castiel’s wounds from last night.

                Cas rolls onto his back and just lays there allowing Dean to kiss him for a while. The kisses are slow, gentle, and Dean is taking extra care to avoid hitting the split in Castiel’s lip too much. Cas is only half-awake when they start, but as they keep kissing, his mind slowly comes back to reality until he’s fully awake, albeit tired. He remembers blurred flashes of Dean waking him up several times throughout the night because of the concussion.

                When Dean gives one final swipe of his tongue through Castiel’s mouth and pulls away, Castiel’s head sinks back into Dean’s thin pillow, and he smiles up at the green eyed boy hovering over him, their faces inches apart. “This is a very nice way to wake up,” he says, his voice raspy and quiet like he has a bad cold. Cas winces and reaches up, holding his sore throat for a moment before swallowing. It hurts to speak, but at least there’s no permanent damage from the tire iron.

                Castiel sees Dean glance briefly at his throat, and then a pained look fills his eyes. “How are you feeling?” he asks, reaching down and pulling Cas’s hand off his throat so that Dean can prod gently at the bruises. His blunt fingertips linger on the side of Cas’s neck where he has fingernail marks from Alastair.

                "I'm alright," Cas replies, swallowing a few times and blinking his dry eyes. There's a strange pull on his head, and for a moment he's confused, before he remembers the bandage and the stitches. God, he thought last night was all a very bad dream.

                He swallows again and studies Dean's face, the dark circles under his eyes, and he feels a pang of guilt. "Did you get any sleep?" he asks, and Dean huffs a little breath, rolling off of Castiel and collapsing on the mattress beside him.

                "Yeah, a bit," Dean replies, and Castiel knows he's not telling the truth. Cas just rolls his eyes and reaches over, cupping Dean's face and running his thumb gently over the tired rings beneath Dean's eyes.

                "Liar," he whispers, and Dean looks at him for a moment before chuckling a little, leaning in and giving him another chaste kiss.

                "I'm fine, stop worrying about me," he says, "Worry about yourself for once."

                Castiel smiles a little, licking his dry lips and glancing at the clock beside Dean's bed. It's half past nine in the morning. He promised Missouri he'd go see her this morning. She'll be worried.

                It's weird, having someone worrying about him. Castiel has never really had that before.

                He sighs and sits up slowly, wincing and groaning at the odd aches and pains in different concentrated points of his body. Dean immediately jumps to help him up, fussing over him a bit unnecessarily. Castiel almost rolls his eyes, but instead blushes at the concern Dean is showing for him. He wonders what his face looks like now that the bruises have had the night to settle in.          

                "I should really get to Missouri's," Cas says, prodding at his aching throat for a moment before forcing himself to drop his hand, "She was very worried last night." 

                Dean pops his eyebrows. "Yeah, we all were," he says, "Did you see the look on that nurse's face?"

                Castiel's forehead creases. "Tessa?"

                Dean nods. "She looked about ready to go out right then and bust up the fuckers who did this to you herself."

                Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek. "You don't think she'll go to the police, do you?" he asks.

                Dean pauses and shrugs a little, looking down at Castiel's hand resting on the mattress and running his fingers over the lightly protruding tendons. "Are you saying she shouldn't?"

                Castiel swallows again, wincing, and looks down at where Dean's fingers are touching his hand, pursing his lips. "I suppose not," he replies, "I was considering it."

                Dean looks up at him again. "You wanna go to the cops?" he asks, and Castiel licks his lips, his tongue swiping over the coppery tasting cut there.

                "I want to talk to Missouri first," he replies after a moment, "She'll know what to do."

                Dean nods a little, considering that, looking back down at Cas's hand again for a moment before wrapping his whole hand around it and raising it to his lips, kissing Castiel's bruised knuckles. "Then let's go," he says, "I'm coming with you."

                Cas studies the dark circles under Dean's eyes. "Dean, you should sleep," he says, "You're exhausted."

                Dean rolls his eyes and pushes himself up from the bed. "I wanna make sure you’re okay first," he says, helping Castiel stand slowly, "And besides, there's no food in this house. Missouri might have breakfast."

                Castiel chuckles a little, his stomach churning with a bit of hunger. He steadies himself on his sore legs for a moment, wiggling his bare feet. One of the unfamiliar boys stole his shoes last night, he remembers. They were his most comfortable pair.

                "Do you have shoes I can borrow?" he asks, looking back at Dean, "Just for today."

                Dean snorts and wanders over to a small pile of clothes and things in the corner, rifling through and pulling out one shoe, and then the other. A pair of tennis shoes.

                "Don't judge me or anything," he says as he kneels in front of Cas, "They were required for a PE class my sophomore year."

                "You had to buy them?" Cas asks as Dean first wrestles Castiel's legs into his torn jeans, and then slips the tennis shoes onto his feet.

                Dean looks up at him, a little sheepishly, but also a little smugly. "Five finger discount at the sporting goods place in town," he admits with a little chuckle, "Dad was between jobs and we were broke. I was failing PE for not dressing out, so..."

                Castiel snorts a little, wiggling his toes in the shoes. They're just a hair too big, but they'll do. "You're a very bad boy, Dean Winchester," he says, and Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, smirking as he stands up and presses his hand flat against the small of Castiel's back, reining him in for a kiss.

                "I like the sound of that," he drawls against Cas's lips, kissing him once more before plucking Castiel's black Anasazi shirt up from the floor and pulling it gently over Cas's head. It smells like that old, ripe stench clinging to the walls of the train car out at Ghost Town, like dust and petrified animal dung. Castiel crinkles his nose at the smell and thinks about how crisp and new it smelled yesterday morning when he put it on after taking it out of Bartholomew's birthday package in the mail.

                Castiel steps into the bathroom down the hall for a moment to rinse out his mouth and look at himself in the mirror. He looks awful, but not as bad as he thought he might. Maybe the worst of the injuries are hidden under bandages. He doesn’t allow himself to look at his reflection for very long. In his head he’s comparing how he looks now, to how he looked the day after he spent the night in the woods in November. He’d rather not think about that day. Things are different now.

                When he wanders down the hallway to the kitchen, Dean is in there drinking coffee out of a small Tupperware container. Castiel remembers that they didn’t have any dishes last time he was here, so he doesn’t remark upon Dean’s makeshift cup. Instead, he just wanders up and wraps his arms around Dean’s stomach from behind, nosing at the back of his neck and placing a gentle kiss to the warm skin there. This is his favorite time of day to see Dean, when everything is hazy with morning tiredness, and they’re both disheveled. Not that Dean got any sleep, but he’s still messy-haired and tired.

                Dean makes a disgusted sound and smacks his lips, setting his coffee down on the counter. “This instant crap is poison,” he grumbles, and Castiel huffs a small laugh against his neck.

                “Missouri will probably have some coffee,” he replies, “I’m sure she’d be happy to make you some.”

                Dean sighs and spins around in Castiel’s hold, allowing Cas to pin him against the counter and kiss him again, still gentle, still slow, all healing and care. Kissing Dean is like drinking some magic potion that makes Castiel feel gradually better. The more he feels the smooth drag of Dean’s Folgers-flavored lips against his, the less he feels the sporadic aches and stings of his injuries.

                Dean huffs a tired laugh against Castiel’s lips. “I could get used to having you here in the mornings,” he says, trailing his fingertips down Castiel’s spine. Cas smiles and dips his head down, nipping playfully at Dean’s neck once before pulling away and weaving his fingers through Dean’s.

                “Come on,” he says, pulling Dean towards the front door, “Let’s go.”

                Dean follows without protest, grabbing his cigarettes and phone on the way out, and they step outside into the chill of the March morning together. The old woman next door, whom Dean refers to as the squash lady, is standing at her window when they walk by, sipping something from a mug. She smiles and waves at them as they pass, and Dean returns the gesture, glancing at Castiel as if checking to see if Cas can actually see her too, like he thinks she’s a ghost or something.

                The mid-morning air bites at Castiel’s exposed arms, but he finds the cold bracing to his tired bones. He imagines Dean must be much more tired than he is, having not gotten any sleep, so he doesn’t complain, and tries not to yawn. He looks at the houses they pass, at the dead, brown lawns, at the forest beyond the rooves, at the creaking swing at Hautley’s Bend…anything to keep himself from thinking about last night.

                It all sort of feels like a dream. The memories of last night are blurred over and hazy, like his mind didn’t have enough time or power to process them. He remembers waking up in the trunk of Alastair’s car, remembers breaking someone’s nose, remembers the cold feeling of the tire iron pressed across his throat. He remembers the fear. _God_ , he was so fucking scared.

                Castiel swallows hard and looks down at his feet as they walk, holding Dean’s hand tighter. Dean glances at him questioningly, but Castiel doesn’t say anything – just tries to forget about everything that happened last night. Tries to pretend that when he got off of work at Bobby’s shop, he just rode his bike home last night and celebrated his birthday with Anna and Missouri and Jesse, and fell asleep in the middle of texting Dean like he does so often.

                Things never really go how Castiel expects them to.

                It takes them longer than usual to walk to Missouri’s. Castiel can tell Dean is deliberately walking a little slower than normal so that Cas doesn’t strain his injuries too much. They make it to Missouri’s house a little after ten in the morning, and when Missouri sees the state of Castiel’s face, she schools her expression, her lips tight, and brews him up an entire big pot of her healing tea that she swears by. Dean doesn’t even have to ask before Missouri makes him coffee too.

                Dean and Castiel duck under the doorway of the kitchen and sit at the little table, and Missouri forces Castiel to drink all of his tea, and continually ferries fresh cups of coffee to Dean as he drains one after another. She tuts at the tired circles under Dean’s eyes as she makes them both a huge breakfast, and when Castiel asks, Missouri tells him she took the day off work today to wait for him to come home. Castiel feels a little warm inside when she says that, especially when she refers to her house as his _home_ , even though it isn’t.

                Cas doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand. Not once. Not even to eat their food. It feels nice, the heavy, warm weight of it. It’s comforting. Missouri no doubt notices, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she tries her best to hide the fact that she’s trying not to cry. Castiel doesn’t know for certain why Missouri is tearing up, can’t fathom why she would be torn up enough about the state of Castiel’s battered face to cry. But when Missouri sits down next to him finally, Castiel reaches out and places his hand on her arm as some sort of semblance of comfort.

                She gives him a weary smile and pats his hand on her arm, sighing and requesting that Castiel tell her everything that happened, from the beginning, in detail.

                And Castiel does. He tells her the truth, from start to finish. He tells her about the four boys outside of Bobby’s shop, tells her Alastair’s name (her lips press into a thin line like Alastair’s name means something to her – for all Castiel knows, Alastair has a reputation in this town), tells her about waking up in the trunk, and fighting in the woods, and the train car at Ghost Town, and the hospital. He barely takes a breath. Dean and Missouri both sit there quietly and listen. Dean’s hand tightens marginally around Castiel’s with every new detail in the story, everything that Castiel didn’t tell Dean last night. Castiel actually winces at how tightly Dean grips his hand when Castiel tells of the way Alastair strangled him with the tire iron.

                Castiel leaves out the weird things Alastair whispered in his ear about Dean. He’s not sure what they meant, and he doesn’t want to scare Dean. That’s the last thing he wants.

                When he finishes his story, Missouri visibly swallows and nods, patting Castiel’s hand again. “Alright,” she says, sitting back and pausing for a second before continuing, “Wait here. I’m taking you to the police station.”

                Castiel swallows and nods. He figured that was where this was going. It’s probably for the best. Missouri excuses herself for a moment and disappears down the hall to her bedroom.

                Cas sighs, feeling a little lighter now that he’s told the whole story. It feels good to get it off his chest, and he slumps a little in his seat, looking over at Dean for the first time since he began to speak. Dean’s expression gives proper meaning to the phrase _if looks could kill_. There’s murder in his eyes and his jaw is clenched tight as stone. Beyond that, there’s one, single tear track glistening down Dean’s left cheek.

                Castiel reaches up and thumbs the tear away, shaking his head and leaning in. Dean’s mouth is stiff when Castiel kisses him, and Cas cups his face, squeezing his hand, trying to snap Dean out of his obvious fury.

                “I’m going to fucking kill him,” Dean growls lowly, in a voice Castiel doesn’t recognize. Cas shakes his head and kisses him again, leaning over so Dean is forced to lock eyes with him.

                “No you’re not,” Castiel says firmly, “Alastair will be properly dealt with. But not like that.”

                Dean’s eyebrows press together briefly, and then smooth out again, his jaw bulging at the corners as he clenches it. He stares hard at Castiel for a long moment, locking eyes with him. It takes a minute or two, but eventually the hard glaze of anger in Dean’s eyes melts into a low simmer as he calms a bit.

                He shakes his head a little. “How the hell did I let this happen?” he asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

                “Dean, this wasn’t your fault,” Castiel replies, pulling Dean’s hand away from his face and holding it.

                “Yes it is,” Dean argues softly, chewing on his lip and shaking his head again, “All of this is. It’s been my fault from the start. I could’ve stopped my friends, way back in the beginning of the year. Just steered them in another direction and left you alone. None of this would’ve happened if I’d just grown a pair and kept them away from you in September.”

                Castiel grits his teeth, reaching up and grasping Dean’s chin, turning his face so Dean is looking at him again. “Listen to me,” he says, “You can’t control what other people do. You can’t take responsibility for other people’s actions. This is in no way your fault, Dean.”

                Dean stares at him for a moment, and then raises a hand and gently trails his fingertips over the small gash on Castiel’s cheekbone. It reminds Cas of the first time he and Dean were in the Dungeon bathroom together, when Dean punched the hole in the wall. Dean sighs as he touches the wound, and then sweeps his thumb over Castiel’s eyebrow, mapping out the different angles of his face.

                “How come you never went to the cops before?” he asks, eventually dropping his hand and studying Castiel’s face, “Why didn’t you press charges against me?”

                Castiel huffs a little breath, his eyes darting from one of Dean’s to the other. He shrugs one shoulder. “I didn’t want you to get in trouble,” he replies, listening to shuffling noises down the hall as Missouri rifles around in her bedroom.

                Dean grits his teeth. “That’s crap Cas,” he says, “You can’t justify the shit I did to you.”

                Castiel licks his lips and shakes his head again, playing with Dean’s fingers absently. “I thought you were different,” he replies, studying Dean’s face, “Turns out I was right.”

                Dean chews on his lip and looks down at their hands woven together between them. Before he can say anything more, Missouri comes back into the kitchen, fully dressed now with her hair pinned back. Dean and Cas both look up at her, and she hooks her purse over her shoulder.

                “Now sugar, I want you to promise me something,” Missouri says, raising her eyebrows and leveling Castiel with a serious gaze. Castiel nods, and she continues, “When we get to the police station, I want you to tell them everything you just told me. Every word.”

                Castiel swallows, glancing at Dean, and then nods again. “I promise.”

                Missouri straightens up again, satisfied. She turns her eyes onto Dean. “You coming honey?”

                Before Dean can say anything, Castiel interjects. “No. Dean needs to go get some sleep. He stayed up all night.”

                “What? Like hell, Cas! You don’t have to do this alone,” Dean protests, but Castiel just shakes his head and turns towards him.

                “Missouri will be with me,” Cas assures him, “You need to go get some rest. Please.”

                Dean looks torn, halfway between arguing and giving in. He glances at Missouri, but she’s just standing back allowing them to hash this one out. Honestly, the real reason Castiel doesn’t want Dean there is because he doesn’t like where Dean’s head is at right now, blaming himself for this. If Dean came to the police station, Castiel is halfway convinced Dean would try to “turn himself in” somehow for the things he did months ago that he’s long since redeemed himself for. And the only person who deserves to have charges brought down against them today is Alastair.

                Dean huffs a hard sigh through his nose, clenching his jaw and staring at Castiel. “Will you tell me what happens?” he asks, and Castiel nods.

                “I’ll tell you everything,” he promises, “For now, just go home and try to sleep for a while. I’ll text you as soon as we’re done.”

                Dean hesitates for another long moment, and then sighs again. “Okay,” he agrees reluctantly, peeking at Missouri once more and then leaning in and giving Castiel a quick peck on the lips.

                They stand and help Missouri clear the breakfast dishes before leaving the house. Dean walks Castiel to the passenger side door of Missouri’s little Station Wagon and waits until Missouri has ducked inside before giving Castiel a deeper kiss goodbye. Cas smiles into it, threading one hand through Dean’s soft hair and allowing him to fuss over Castiel for once.

                Missouri knocks on the passenger window after a minute or so, urging them to hurry it along, and Dean snorts a laugh, waving to her. They break away from each other, and Castiel savors the lingering taste and feel of Dean’s lips against his as he opens the car door and climbs inside.

                He watches Dean’s reflection in the side mirror as they pull away from the curb, watches him standing there on Missouri’s front lawn until the little Station Wagon turns the corner at the end of the block and Dean disappears from sight.

 

*       *       *

 

                The moment Dean is alone, he crosses the street and ducks into the woods, finding a hidden spot and fishing his cigarettes out of his pocket. His hands are shaking as he lights one up, but he needs it. He _needs_ it. It’s either this or he’s going to go hunt down Alastair right this second and tear his fucking throat out.

                Dean takes a long drag on his smoke, leaning back against a tree and clawing at his sleeve, rolling it up, dragging the fabric painfully against the cigarette burns there in the process. He barely feels it though, he’s so angry. There’s a bare patch of skin below his elbow, and he doesn’t even hesitate before pressing the red hot tip of his cigarette there.

                It hurts. Of course it fucking hurts, but Dean’s blood is pumping in his ears and there’s red creeping into the edges of his vision, and he’s _angry_. He’s _so fucking angry_ he can barely stand straight.

                It’s been like this all night. He’s been fighting himself for hours now, trying to keep himself from grabbing the first pointy object he can find and walking to Alastair’s house to stab him in the chest. He has pencil smudges all over his hands from staying up all night drawing and writing in Cas’s notebook, trying to distract himself from the desire to feel Alastair’s blood between his fingers.

                Some people just deserve to be dead.

                God, Dean is so _furious_. Sometimes he wonders if he’s even human, he’s so angry all the time. Now more than ever.

                When the cigarette goes out and the pain fades away, Dean doesn’t feel any better. So he just lights it up again and presses it once more to his bare skin. Despite the dizzying waves of endorphins washing through his shaking muscles and boiling blood, Dean doesn’t calm down. He doesn’t calm down the third time he burns himself, nor the fourth, the fifth, the sixth.

                Before he knows it, he’s created a ring of cigarette burns on his forearm. It takes him a blind moment to realize that he’s made them into the shape of a heart there on his skin, like some sick and twisted love poem. By the time he’s done, his cigarette is nothing but a nub in his fingers, and he flicks it aside, staring at the heart he’s just burned onto his forearm.

                He slumps against the tree, just staring at his shaking arm, panting in the cold March air. A car drives by on the road through the break in the trees, but Dean doesn’t pay any attention to it. He’s almost glad he’s not going to the police station with Castiel right now. As much as he didn’t want to let Cas out of his sight, he’s afraid he would have accidentally punched an indifferent cop in the face or something in his blind anger and gotten himself arrested. Not that he doesn’t deserve that.

                He considers going to Zach’s house. It’s only a couple miles through the trees. He could walk there right now and be there in a half an hour. Gordon’s house is only about twenty minutes away in town. He could go there too. He could tear into their rooms and drag them up by the collars of their shirts and demand to know whether they knew what Alastair was planning last night. He could even go to Crowley’s apartment.

                Of course, none of them are home right now. They’re probably at school, in class or at The Docks. Maybe they’re ditching and they’re out at Ghost Town. Maybe Alastair is with them.

                Dean grinds his teeth and tears his eyes away from his freshly burned arm, pulling his sleeve down over the blistering heart on his skin, feeling sick to the stomach. He keeps reminding himself that Castiel and Missouri are headed to the police station right now, that they’re filing a report, that the police will arrest Alastair, that this will all be over soon. He keeps fighting himself, forcing himself not to start walking towards Alastair’s house, or Zach’s, or Gordon’s, or Crowley’s, because if he does, he won’t be able to stop himself from taking matters into his own hands, and he can’t do that right now. The police will take care of it. _The police will take care of it_. He just needs to keep telling himself that.

                He’d give anything to strangle the life out of Alastair’s skeletal, disgusting body himself, but he _can’t_. He _can’t_ do that. Alastair isn’t _worth_ Dean throwing his life away over.

                He clenches his hands into white-knuckled fists and tries to slow his heart rate. There’s not much he can think about right now besides _killing_ something, so instead of trying to avoid those thoughts, he attempts to come up with a solution to his problem right now. A distraction? Maybe finding something _else_ to kill in the meantime until Alastair is arrested and untouchable to Dean?

                Back before he met Castiel, Dean would have just taken his frustrations out on some loser freshman at school. He would have dragged some nameless kid out back behind the school and gotten a few punches in, and everything would have been better. Now, Dean has changed, and he has nothing to project his bottled anger upon besides himself. And that’s not working today.

                He considers maybe going to the K-8 and picking up Sammy early from school. Taking him to the arcade in town, or to the frozen river behind the high school to play. But he doesn’t want Sam to get in trouble, nor does he want Sam to see him like this.

                Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut, grinding his teeth so hard that his jaw is starting to hurt. He sees red even when he closes his eyes and he can feel his pulse in different parts of his body: his temple, his neck, his chest, his bicep, his thigh. It’s like having a hundred different hearts all packed inside him, beating at once. Beating out the same angry, explosive rhythm: _kill, kill, kill_. Do _something_. Don’t just stand here. _If you don’t kill something, this anger’s going to kill_ you _._

                Dean opens his eyes.

                Cara Roberts.

                He can go see Cara.

                Her name pops in his head, a stray thought floating on the sea of red, of anger and bloodlust and murder. A last resort of a desperate mind trying to save itself from self-destruction.

                As much as Dean hates the idea of seeing a shrink, he has _nobody_ available right now to distract him. He doesn’t even know if _Cara_ is available right now in the middle of the morning, but it’s worth a shot.

                He takes a moment to scrape together his scattered, red-drenched thoughts and pushes himself away from the tree he’s slumped against, nearly losing his footing with how weak his legs are from the rush of endorphins. He steadies himself and starts off through the trees, boots crunching over twigs and dead leaves and frozen dirt. The air around him is cold, but Dean feels too hot. His eyes are heavy with exhaustion from the lack of sleep, and he briefly considers to himself that the reason he’s so uncontrollably angry right now is because his mind is too tired to turn it off.

                A lack of sleep never leads to anything good.

                He fishes another cigarette out of his pocket as he walks towards the high school, just to have something to do with his shaking hands so he doesn’t punch a tree and add more scars to his already-ruined knuckles. He counts the number of big rocks he sees laying on the ground, counts the footprints of deer and coyotes, counts the low-hanging branches, counts _everything_ , in an attempt to distract his own mind.

                It works well enough, and by the time he reaches the high school, his throat raw from cigarette smoke and not enough water, his anger has dwindled marginally. At least enough so that he doesn’t take a swing at the first person he sees. He’s glad that none of his old friends are sitting at The Docks right now. He’s not sure if he would have been able to stop himself from going over there and demanding answers. _Why did Alastair hurt Cas_? _Who the fuck gave him the right_? _Did they know about this_?

                Dean pushes his way into the school, cradling his throbbing forearm to his stomach, trying to be inconspicuous about it. He barely sees the faces of the people he walks by. They’re all just blurs in the edges of his barely-controlled anger. Everyone gets out of his way as he walks down the halls, like they always do. No one stands in his path. He’s sure his expression is terrifying right now, murder in his eyes, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to see Cara. Maybe she can help him.

                When he reaches the main office, he all but shoves his way through the door, ignoring the receptionist when she calls out to have him sign in for a counselor appointment. Every session with the school counselors is by appointment, but Dean doesn’t really think about that as he heads straight for Cara’s door in the back hallway. When he reaches it, the little sign on her door isn’t turned to **Appointment In Session** , so he considers that a win. He reaches down and grasps the doorknob, maybe turning it a little _too_ hard.

                The door is locked.

                Dean jiggles it a few times, and then freezes.

                He doesn’t have enough time to start panicking about the fact that Cara isn’t in her office right now though, because someone says, “Dean?” behind him, and his head snaps in that direction.

                Cara is standing there with an armful of papers, and a coffee in her other hand. It looks like she just made a quick run to the teacher’s lounge or something. Dean’s chest deflates when he sees her, and even though he’s only ever had one session with her before, he immediately feels safer with her standing there, like maybe he _won’t_ have to go rip someone apart limb from limb just to cool off the fire inside him.

                “Are you okay?” she asks, and he gulps, standing there frozen.

                “Um…are you free right now?” he asks, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, “To talk?”

                Her face softens a little, and she studies him for a moment before stepping forward. “Hold these,” she says, handing him the papers in her arms. He takes them and watches as she fishes her office keys out of her pocket and unlocks the door, pushing it open. Dean follows her inside and she flips the sign on the door before closing it again and switching on all the lights.

                She takes her papers back from Dean and nods towards the couch with a smile, offering him a seat. “My appointment sheet is usually empty on Mondays,” she says as Dean sinks down onto the couch and picks at one of the beaded pillows, “What’s on your mind?”

                Dean is silent for a moment, glancing at the little tank of underwater frogs on the table, and then watching as Cara settles back in her chair and takes a sip of her coffee. He’s not sure why he suddenly feels nervous under all his anger and desperation. He’s still not used to this whole counseling thing. It’s weird, pouring out your secrets to someone you barely know. Sure, Cara’s bound by some sort of oath or bullshit agreement not to tell his secrets to anyone else, but it’s still weird. Dean is used to working things out on his own, sorting out his thoughts by himself, with alcohol or drugs or cigarettes or sex.

                Of course, that doesn’t seem to be working today. Frankly, it hasn’t been working very well for a very long time. His mutilated arm is evidence of that.

                Cara reaches into a drawer on her desk and tosses Dean a little frog-shaped stress ball for encouragement. Dean chuckles a little and cradles the frog awkwardly in his hands for a moment before letting out a heavy sigh and falling back into the back rest of the couch.

                And he talks.

                He tells Cara everything. From the beginning. Not just about what happened to Castiel last night, but about everything that’s happened between he and Castiel since they met. The first time Dean saw Cas at Hautley’s Bend, the first time Dean shoved Cas in the mud, the first time he punched Cas in the face, the first time Dean realized he liked Cas. He tells her about the day he got drunk and left Castiel beaten bloody in the woods overnight (he leaves out the part about what happened to Dean at Ghost Town to provoke this, however). He tells her about helping Cas, finally standing up to his friends, kissing Castiel on Christmas, making dinner with him.

                Dean tells her about how he’s slowly losing his mind.

                He tells her about his guilt, not just involving Cas, but about Sammy’s problems as well. He can’t protect him, he can’t protect _anybody_. And he tells her about his _anger_. So much anger. He’s angry _all the time_. Every day. Even when he’s happy, he’s still angry, deep down, somewhere in his core where he can’t reach in and scoop it out. Like a parasite deep within himself that won’t leave and poisons his every thought.

                Cara sits quietly and listens to him speak, listens to him rant for almost a half an hour about everything he can’t change, and everything horrible he’s done, and Dean is halfway convinced she’s going to hate him by the time he’s done here today. But at least he’s talking. At least he’s talking to somebody and not venting his anger on some freshman kid or burning Alastair’s house to the ground.

                By the time Dean finishes speaking, having only left out the most intimate of secrets, he’s breathing hard, and his eyes are watery, and his head is aching with equal parts exhaustion and fury. His arm is on fire, stinging with his fresh cigarette burns, and his hand is cramping from squeezing the stress ball frog so hard.

                Cara is quiet for a moment, and then she sits forward in her chair, setting her coffee down on her desk and locking eyes pointedly with Dean.

                “I’m going to say something, and I want you to repeat it back to me,” she says, her first words since he started venting.

                Dean swallows, sniffing a little, and he nods reluctantly.

                “I cannot change who I was. I can only change who I am,” Cara says.

                Dean’s face falls and he rolls his eyes. “Really?” he snorts.

                “Say it,” Cara coaxes.

                Dean licks his lips, not really sure how this is supposed to help him at all. But he does as he’s told. “I can’t change who I was, only who I am,” he repeats.

                Cara nods. “Good,” she says, “Now say it again.”

                “Why?”

                She leans back. “Because I want you to really remember that. It’s important.”

                Dean studies her for a moment, fiddling with the stress ball frog in his hands. “I can’t change who I was. I can only change who I am.”

                She nods with a small smile. “You can’t dwell on the past, Dean,” she says, “It sounds to me like Castiel has forgiven you for the wrong you’ve done. Now you need to forgive yourself.”

                Dean digs his thumbnail gently into the eye of the frog stress ball, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “But this is my fault Cara,” he points out, “None of this would have happened to Cas if it weren’t for me. I’m the reason he keeps getting hurt.”

                Cara shakes her head. “You can’t control what other people do,” she reasons, “The actions of someone else are not your fault.”

                Dean swallows and sighs deeply, his head buzzing with the aftermath of his anger. It’s still boiling low in his chest like a sleeping volcano, but for now, there’s no red crawling into the edges of his vision anymore. Cara waits patiently for him to speak, to collect his scattered thoughts and work through them. It takes him a minute or two before he looks up at her again, sighing again, harder this time, forcing his anger to remain locked inside.

                “I want him dead Cara,” Dean says, his voice barely above a whisper. He’s afraid if he speaks louder than that, he’ll start shouting. And Cara’s not the one he needs to unleash his anger on. Alastair is.

                She gives him a look of understanding that somehow doesn’t make Dean feel pitiful, which is nice. Adults do that sometimes with him – give him sympathetic looks like he’s some lost puppy in the streets. He doesn’t need that shit.

                “Castiel is at the police station now, you said?” she asks, and Dean nods.

                “He said he’d text me after he’s done there.”

                She folds her hands on her lap. “So as far as Alastair is concerned, he’ll get what’s coming to him,” she says, “The police will take care of this. You don’t need to bring yourself down in the process. Everything will work itself out.”

                Dean nods a little, swallowing hard and looking down at his hands in his lap, fiddling with the stress ball. It’s starting to come apart a little bit from where Dean keeps digging his fingernails into it. He eases up just a bit. He doesn’t want to tear the thing apart. “I’m angry, all the time,” he confesses, licking his lips, “And when I’m not, I just feel…nothing.”

                Cara studies him for a moment and then sits back in her chair again. “Can you try something for me?” she asks, and Dean glances up at her again.

                He hesitates before nodding.

                She smiles a little. “I know this is gonna sound like some bullshit I’m pulling out of a fortune cookie but…can you try to focus your energy on positive things?” she asks, “You’re carrying around a lot of pent up energy that’s being channeled into anger and negativity. If you use that energy to focus on something positive, it might change your perspective a bit.”

                Dean’s forehead crinkles, because that _does_ sound like some fortune cookie bullshit. “Something positive like…what?”

                Cara chuckles a little. “Well…for instance, you mentioned that Castiel’s eighteenth birthday was yesterday?” she asks. Dean nods. “So,” she continues, shrugging, “How about throw him a surprise party?”

                The corner of Dean’s mouth pulls up into a little smile. “Seriously?”

                She laughs. “Why not? It’s something positive to focus on instead of dwelling on the things that make you angry or upset.”

                Dean snorts a little, shaking his head and looking back down at the stress ball. “I’ve never thrown a party before,” he admits, and Cara reaches back to grab her coffee again.

                “Oh it’s easy,” she says, taking a sip out of her travel mug, “I bet you could get a few people together as soon as tonight even. That’d be fun, don’t you think?”

                Dean huffs a little laugh. “Yeah,” he agrees, pulling in a long sigh. He feels a lot better than he did half an hour ago when he first got here. He’s surprised that therapy actually works sometimes. He’s only ever heard bad things about shrinks. But then, Cara isn’t exactly a real shrink. She’s just a counselor at the high school. Somehow though, Dean thinks that she probably does a better job at listening than most professional therapists.

                They sit there and talk for the rest of the class period, and Cara politely doesn’t remark upon the fact that Dean isn’t in class right now. She talks him through some simple breathing exercises to help him control his anger, and then suggests a few ideas for Castiel’s surprise party.

                When the bell rings, Dean thanks her and leaves, feeling heavy with exhaustion, but lighter now that he’s gotten so many things off his chest. Talking to Cara is like jumping into a lake and washing off all of your problems. He’s still guilty, and he’s still angry deep down, but for now, he feels better, because he’s not in this alone. And maybe that’s the point.

                There are students milling about in the hallway when Dean steps out of the office during the passing period. He weaves through the crowd and heads for the back door, pulling his phone out of his pocket and sending out a group text to everyone he and Castiel mutually know to let them know that they’re having a surprise party for Castiel’s birthday tonight in Cas’s house. A few people text back surprised. Nobody knew that Cas’s birthday was yesterday. Castiel kept it a secret. But everyone is on board with the plan, and Dean is actually smiling a little when he pushes his way out the back door of the school and starts across the parking lot towards the woods.

                He glances up and sees Gordon and Zach sitting at The Docks, and for a split moment, the anger simmering low in his gut threatens to burst, threatens to pull his feet in the direction of The Docks and demand answers. He knows that Gordon and Zach probably didn’t know what Alastair was planning when he hurt Castiel last night. He knows that they weren’t there. But seeing them still pisses him off.

                He tears his eyes away from them before he does something stupid though, and clutches his phone tight in his hand, reading various texts from Gabe and Charlie and Kevin and everyone, suggesting ideas for the party tonight. Dean waits to answer them until he’s on the path through the trees, and far away from The Docks. He counts slowly in his head, breathing in and out. Just breathing. Repeating the exercises Cara just showed him to control the inferno inside himself.

                It works after a few minutes. He feels himself calming down a bit, and by the time he’s halfway home, his anger is tucked away inside himself beneath a strange layer of calmness that will hopefully remain where it is for the time being. At least until he can figure out how to be happy for good.

 

*       *       *

 

                After spending a couple hours at the police station, Castiel goes back to Missouri’s house and wastes the rest of the day watching bad daytime TV and eating every soft food that Missouri shoves into his hands to soothe his sore throat. He texts with Dean for a while, just to tell him what happened with the cops, and then orders Dean to go to sleep. Castiel is sure that Dean’s not going to listen, but it’s worth a try.

                Castiel dozes off on the claw foot couch in Missouri’s living room beneath her rabbit foot collection and beside her shelves of crystals, and he dreams of train cars and haylofts. They’re not horrible dreams, but he wishes he didn’t have them. He wakes feeling less rested than he did when he fell asleep.

                By the time Jesse and Anna get home from school, Castiel is feeling tired, but exponentially better than he did when he got up this morning. The aches and pains in his various wounds have lessened, and he swears his bruises are already fading, although he knows that’s impossible. Missouri says it’s her tea that’s doing the trick, and Castiel is inclined to believe her. He can’t explain it otherwise.

                It’s after seven that night by the time Cas and Anna decide to head back over to their house. Castiel hugs Missouri tight and thanks her for everything she’s done for him today. She pats his cheek and smoothes down the frayed edge of the bandage on his head before sending them on their way with a little twinkle in her eye, like she knows something he doesn’t. Castiel doesn’t ask. Missouri always sort of has that look in her eye, like she knows too much.

                Castiel is pleased that he’s not limping anymore as he and Anna walk across the lawn towards their house. The windows are dark and the house is quiet, and Anna stays by Cas’s side the whole walk over there, ready to catch him in case he trips or something. She doesn’t ask about what happened last night, doesn’t ask about why Castiel didn’t show up for his own birthday dinner. Cas thinks that maybe Missouri explained briefly to her when she picked Anna up from school, and at this point, Anna is used to this sort of thing anyway. Castiel has been dealing with bullies for as long as Anna has been alive. This is just another happening in the Novak family.

                The house is just as cold inside as it is outside when they walk into the front door. It’s not locked – Castiel must have forgotten to lock it yesterday before going to work. They step inside, and close the door, shivering from the cold. Anna reaches over and flips on the switch in the front hallway, filling the room with warm golden light.

                “ **SURPRISE!!** ”

                Castiel nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the shouts of at least half a dozen people. He whirls around, and sees Gabriel jump out first, followed by Charlie, and Dorothy, and Kevin. Dean is behind them with Jo, and to Castiel’s surprise, Sam as well. They’re all grinning and have party hats strapped to their heads. Charlie and Dorothy blow party horns as everyone cheers and laughs and Castiel just stands there blinking for a moment, confused.

                Why is everyone in his house?

                “What?” is the first thing he manages to utter, and Gabriel laughs at him.

                “Happy birthday!” Charlie and Dorothy exclaim in unison, coming forward and wrapping Castiel up in a big double-hug. The hug is gentler than their usual hugs, and Castiel thinks maybe they’re trying not to jostle his wounds too much. Cas’s forehead creases in confusion.

                “How did you know?” he asks, and Dean steps forward, strapping a party hat to Castiel’s head and grinning wolfishly.

                “What? You think I was gonna let you get away with not having a birthday party?” he asks, leaning in and planting a kiss on Castiel’s lips.

                Cas blinks. Oh. _Oh_. This is a surprise party! He never thought he’d get one of these in his life.

                A small smile touches at the corners of his mouth. “Really?” he asks, grinning at Dean, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “Duh.”

                Castiel chuckles a little, looking around at everyone with their party hats and horns. “I’ve…I’ve never had a birthday party before,” he admits in a low voice to Dean, “What do I do?”

                Dean snorts. “Have fun, you dingus,” he chuckles, and pulls Castiel by the hand further into the house. Gabe throws his arm around Cas’s shoulders and ruffles his hair.

                “You about pooped yourself bro,” he laughs, and Castiel shoves at him half-heartedly.

                “I think I handled myself very eloquently, thank you very much,” he argues, and Gabe snorts, rolling his eyes. Anna runs and jumps into Dean’s arms for a big hug, and Dean has to let go of Castiel’s hand to catch her. He messes up her hair just to annoy her and she sputters and slaps at his big hands, smoothing back her long, red strands before flicking Dean’s nose.

                Castiel is dragged back into the kitchen and everyone gives him a hug each, even Sam. He doesn’t think he’s ever had this many hugs at once in his life. The kitchen is decorated with cheap, dollar-store streamers and a big sign that reads **_Merry Birthmas_** painted in Gabriel’s handwriting. Cas rolls his eyes and chuckles. There’s food set up on the island counter in bowls. It reminds Castiel of the first time his friends came over here, when they had all that junk food set up in bowls and on plates and they just stuffed themselves full and talked for hours.

                The memory makes him smile.

                Charlie sets up her iPod in the corner with some speakers and plays some background music while everyone talks and laughs. Castiel is starving from a day spent with nothing but liquid food from Missouri, so he digs in to the snacks. There are chips, and pretzels, and Twizzlers stuck in a vase like a bouquet, and cheese puffs, and M&M’s, and even _pudding_. Gabriel must have been in charge of buying the snacks, because there’s nothing even remotely unprocessed on this countertop.

                In the middle of the kitchen table, there’s a cake that looks store-bought, and someone has drawn a pair of penises on it in blue frosting with a heart around them. Dean laughs immaturely at it, while Castiel rolls his eyes.

                “What?” Dean exclaims, “I think it represents us very well, don’t you?”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh and winds his arms around Dean’s waist, kissing him once on the lips while everyone else is occupied eating and talking. “When did you have time to plan all this?” he asks, and Dean shrugs.

                “I had all day,” he points out, and Castiel tsks at him.

                “You didn’t get any sleep, did you?”

                Dean shakes his head with another little shrug. “I’m running on adrenaline though, I’ll be fine,” he smiles.

                Castiel raises his eyebrows at him, and leans in, kissing the dark circle under Dean’s left eye briefly in sympathy.

                For a while, everyone just hangs out there around the counter, eating and laughing and gossiping about random things. At one point, Charlie manages to convince everyone to try some karaoke, which ends up turning into a rap battle mostly between Gabriel and Kevin. Kevin wins.

                Sam and Anna steal some food and disappear into the living room to watch a documentary since the gossip about happenings at the high school doesn’t really interest them. Before Sam slips out, he gives Castiel a drawing he made for him for his birthday. Castiel thanks him with a smile and opens it up, finding a colored pencil sketch of himself and Dean, with Sam sitting on Dean’s shoulders. Cas loves it, and excuses himself for a moment to go up and put it safely in his room where nothing will be spilled on it.

                Nobody says anything about Castiel’s bruised and battered face, to his relief. He thinks Dean probably already told everyone what happened, or at least the basics. Enough that no one seems more than slightly surprised by how Castiel looks. Dean hovers a bit throughout the night, making sure Castiel is feeling okay, that he doesn’t feel dizzy from his concussion or is thirsty or anything. He fusses so much that eventually Castiel has to tell him that he’s perfectly fine, and he’s going to remain fine, and that Dean can stop worrying now and have some fun. Dean blushes, embarrassed a little by his over-protectiveness, but he backs off after that.

                Later into the night, Anna comes into the kitchen to hug Castiel goodbye and says with a yawn that she’s going to go spend the night at Missouri’s. Dean gives her a huge hug goodbye, and everyone farewells her as she leaves. Once she’s gone, Sam returns to the kitchen to hang out, and he and Castiel get into a debate about the documentary Sam and Anna were just watching while everyone else laughs and dances and throws pretzels at each other. More than once, Dean comes over and messes up Sam’s hair when he’s not paying attention, and then skitters away laughing while Sam grumbles and glares at him and smoothes down his already-shaggy mop of hair.

                At one point, Charlie sneaks up behind Dean and puts a scoop of ice cream down the back of his shirt. Dean yelps in the most undignified way and arches his back away from the scoop of frozen treat trapped in his shirt.

                “ _Fuck_ , that’s cold!” he squawks, and Charlie and Dorothy throw their heads back and laugh, giving each other a high five as the scoop of ice cream falls out of the bottom of Dean’s shirt and lands on the floor with a _plop_.

                “Oh, you think that’s funny?” Dean asks, reaching over and grabbing the ladle in the big bowl of pudding. Charlie barely has time to react before Dean flings a whole scoop of pudding at her. She squeals as it splatters across her cheek and the front of her shirt, and when Dorothy points and laughs at her, Charlie attacks her with a hug and successfully smears pudding all over her too.

                It doesn’t take long before Gabriel gets in on it, because of _course_ Gabe’s not going to miss a chance to make a huge mess. He grabs a can of whipped cream and dispenses a hefty blob of it on top of Jo’s head, probably in an attempt to flirt with her because Gabe never misses an opportunity to flirt with _anyone_. In retaliation, Jo snatches up a handful of M &M’s and throws them at Gabe’s face.

                That’s what does it.

                Pretty soon, _everyone_ is throwing food. Even Castiel grabs a handful of the cake on the table and smears it across half of Sam’s face. Sam yelps in surprise and rakes his fingers through the frosting on his cheek, flinging it at Castiel. Dean comes up behind Cas while Castiel is busy going in for another handful of cake, and dumps the whole bowl of cheese puffs down the back of Cas’s shirt. Before Cas can get very far, Dean pulls out the back of his pants just a bit, and a few of the cheese puffs make it down into Castiel’s jeans. He kicks his legs and shoves at Dean with a laugh, throwing the handful of cake that was meant for Sam at Dean instead.

                It takes mere _minutes_ for the kitchen to turn into a complete disaster zone. When all the dry foods on the island counter have been thrown, everyone goes for the ice cream and the cake, since they do the most damage. There are gobs of frosting all over the floor, and brown-white-pink rivulets of Neapolitan ice cream dripping slowly down the walls. It’s hard to run anywhere because M &M’s are scattered across the floor and it’s easy to slip on them, like little marbles.

                The cheese puffs in Cas’s pants are slowly making their way down his pant legs and falling out near his feet. Jo’s hair is sticking to her face from the whipped cream. Kevin’s entire outfit is covered in chocolate pudding. And Dean is unrecognizable underneath the amount of blue frosting all over his face and arms. At the moment, he’s busy picking Sam up by his ankles and swinging him around upside down, making him an easy target for whoever wants to throw food at him. Sam gets pelted with Twizzlers and pudding, and he sputters and shields his face with his hands.

                Castiel has never had this much fun in his _life_.

                He supposes there are advantages to having absent parents. Like completely destroying the house with a food fight.

                Gabriel waddles over to Cas, laughing and scraping cake off the front of his shirt. He barely pauses before unzipping his jeans and kicking them off. There’s a scoop of ice cream down the back of Gabe’s pants that falls out onto the floor when he kicks his jeans away. Charlie notices that Gabe is taking his clothes off, and follows his example, pulling off her shirt and jeans, which are completely soiled with pudding and cake.

                Gabriel gawks at her once she’s standing there in just her bra and panties, and Charlie fixes him with a look. “What? We’re all gay here anyway,” she points out, and Gabriel manages to close his mouth, gulping.

                “Not all of us!” he squeaks, his eyes raking over her bare body. Charlie just rolls her eyes and helps Dorothy out of her soiled sweatshirt and pants. Castiel looks down at his own ruined clothes, and he’s really thankful he’s in his own house right now, because he has extra clothes here that he can change into if he wants to. For now, he just really wants to get out of _these_ clothes. His shirt is weighed down with different splatters of food, and he still has cheese puffs trapped in his pants from Dean.

                Without much of a thought, Castiel sheds his clothing until he’s just standing there in his boxers, and when he looks up, everyone is doing the same, laughing and shoving each other around as they drop their ruined clothes on the floor and walk around in just their undergarments. Even Sam ends up in just his boxers, and he drops his dirty clothes in a pile in the corner.

                Castiel glances over to see that Dean is standing there in his shirt and boxers. He’s frozen in place with his fingers on the hem of his shirt, looking torn between taking off the soiled garment, and leaving it on. Castiel immediately knows what Dean’s hesitation is, from the look on Dean’s face. No one in this room but Castiel and Sam, and possibly Jo, has seen Dean’s scars from the car accident.

                Dean swallows, and glances over, locking eyes with Castiel while everyone else is distracted laughing and chasing each other around the kitchen in their underwear. Cas doesn’t say anything when Dean looks at him, just gives him a little smile and a slight nod. Despite the nervous fear in Dean’s eyes, he smiles back, just a little, and then gulps and looks down at the front of his shirt, covered in frosting and whipped cream.

                Castiel watches him hesitate for a moment longer, and then Dean closes his eyes and pulls his shirt off over his head. Some of the food has soaked through the thin material of Dean’s shirt and painted his torso blue and brown, but for the most part, his scars are completely visible now. He still has an Ace bandage wrapped around the arm where he has his burns, but besides that, he’s exposed.

                No one is paying attention, which is probably a good thing, and Castiel silently slips over to Dean’s side, winding his arms around Dean’s back and kissing him. Dean’s stiff body relaxes a little when Cas kisses him, and when Castiel leans to the side and licks a gob of frosting off of Dean’s cheek, they both laugh.

                “Shit bro, I’m sorry,” Gabriel says, coming up behind Cas and clapping him on the back, “We completely destroyed your kitchen.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes and unwinds his arms from around Dean, looking over at Gabe. “It’s my parent’s kitchen anyway,” he points out, and Gabriel snorts a laugh.

                “It’s okay,” Kevin says from across the room, digging around in the cupboard under the sink, “Dude, you have like every cleaning product on the face of the planet.”

                Charlie cheers and skips over there, ducking down with Kevin and pulling out various types of floor cleaners. “We can have a cleaning party!” she says, “Like in _Pippi Longstocking_!”

                “ _Pippi Longstocking_? Are you serious?” Dean snorts, “How old are we here?”

                “Hey!” Charlie protests, pointing at Dean with a sponge, “No one is _ever_ too old for Pippi.”

                Castiel’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “What’s _Pippi Longstocking_?” he asks, and Charlie gasps as if that’s the most offensive thing he’s ever said.

                “Only the greatest movie in cinematic history!” she exclaims, “You have much to learn young apprentice.”

                As Charlie begins to tell the story of _Pippi Longstocking_ and her gravity-defying red braids, everyone helps sweep up the dry foods all over the floor and scrub down the walls and countertops of gobs of cake and ice cream. It takes them almost an hour to clean everything up, even with all eight of them working together.

                No one says anything about Dean’s scars. No one even looks at them twice. Dean relaxes after a few minutes of having his shirt off in front of everyone, and Castiel smiles as he sees Dean so comfortable being exposed in front of everyone.

                It’s minutes after they finish cleaning up everything that Bobby shows up outside to pick Jo and Sam up. Jo slips back into her dirty clothes so that she’s not parading around outside in her undergarments, and gives Dean and Castiel both a hug goodbye. Sam does the same, and when the two of them leave, everyone else follows their example shortly after. It’s a little after eleven when everyone leaves, wishing Castiel happy birthday again, and hugging both he and Dean goodbye. Charlie’s car is parked down the street a ways, safely hidden from sight so it wouldn’t ruin the surprise earlier, and she offers to give everyone a ride home.

                Before Gabe steps out of the house, he turns to Cas, eyeing the bruises and the bandages all over his face with an odd look. It’s the first time Gabriel has openly acknowledged the state of Castiel’s battered body since the start of the surprise party. Gabe shakes his head, a little bit of uncharacteristic anger flashing in his eyes.

                “If the police don’t bend this guy over and paddle his ass, I’ll do it myself. And not in the fun way.” Gabriel says. Castiel knows he’s talking about Alastair, and he huffs a small breath, patting Gabriel on the shoulder.

                “Thank you,” he replies earnestly. Gabriel has always been too protective for his own good. He and Dean have that in common.

                Gabe snorts and pulls Castiel in for one more brief hug before nodding goodbye to Dean and slipping out the door, jogging to catch up to everyone else where they’re already halfway down the street.

                Castiel watches them go for a moment, and then shuts the door, sighs and turning around to face Dean. He gives Dean a tired smile and chuckles a little.

                “So,” Dean says, “How was your first ever birthday party?”

                Castiel grins and steps forward, wrapping his arms around Dean’s shoulders and mashing their mouths together. Dean laughs into the kiss and allows Castiel to slide his tongue inside his mouth. They stand there for a couple minutes just kissing, both of them still in their boxers and covered in bits of food. When they break apart, Dean chuckles.

                “I take it you had a good time,” he surmises, and Castiel nods.

                “Thank you,” he says, running his hands down Dean’s back, “This was perfect.”

                Dean’s smile softens a bit, and he leans in, kissing the tip of Castiel’s nose. “I don’t know about you, but I for one wanna get cleaned up.”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh. “I’m entirely on board with that plan.”

                Dean smiles and slides his hand into Castiel’s. They pop into the kitchen briefly to turn off the lights, a couple trash bags sitting tied and ready to go out against the wall. They decide to just leave them there until morning. At least the kitchen is clean.

                When they get upstairs, they head to the bathroom. Dean pulls off his boxers and Castiel steps out of his own, and they clean themselves up as best they can at the sink. Dean dunks his head under the running faucet to rinse frosting out of his hair, and once he’s clean, he takes a few minutes to gently wash Castiel’s hair as well, carefully avoiding getting any water on the bandage on his forehead, as per Dr. Garrison’s instructions.

                When they get back to Castiel’s bedroom after brushing their teeth, they deposit their dirty boxers into his laundry hamper and Cas lends Dean a fresh pair before they collapse into his bed. For a few minutes, they’re quiet, just getting comfortable in the sea of pillows. It doesn’t take long, though, for Dean to ask for more details about what happened at the police station today. And Castiel doesn’t mind – Dean is worried. He has every right to be worried.

                So Cas tells him it all again. He tells him that the police took pictures of his injuries, and sat him down to take his statement. He tells him how the police mentioned that they actually received a call from Tessa at the ER this morning and were about to send a squad car out to Castiel's house before Cas came in and saved them the time. He admits to Dean that it was awkward talking about everything Alastair has done to him - not only last night but also in the past - when one of the officers listening to his statement was Gordon’s father. But Castiel successfully pressed charges for assault, and he assures Dean that Alastair is officially wanted for questioning.

                “They’ll get him,” Castiel says, and Dean curls up against him, head pillowed on Castiel’s chest, and Cas feels him nod. Dean doesn't say anything more about it, although he feels a little stiff. It takes a few minutes of Castiel running his fingers gently through Dean's hair for Dean to relax again.

                They lay there in silence for a while, but just as Castiel is closing his eyes, Dean shifts a little bit, and suddenly his lips are pressed to Cas's. Cas smiles into the kiss, and doesn't even bother opening his eyes as Dean kisses him gently, shifting up a little so he's hovering over Castiel. For a few minutes, it's just that - gentle kisses and nothing more.

                But then Dean pulls back and trails his lips along Castiel's jaw, and down the side of his bruised neck, sliding his body so that he can reach Castiel's chest, mapping out his skin with kisses and gentle touches. Cas opens his eyes and looks down at the top of Dean's head, huffing a small laugh. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice a bit breathy as Dean's tongue grazes over his nipple.

                Dean looks up at him and grins in the darkness. "Giving you your birthday present," he replies slyly, and before Castiel can say anything more, Dean dips back down and trails kisses lower, down across his ribs, along his stomach, over his scar, to the edge of his boxers. When Dean hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Castiel's shorts and pulls them down, Cas's head falls back into the pillows and he swallows, his breath quickening just a bit as he feels his semi-hard cock spring free from his underwear.

                Dean takes his time, placing gentle kisses along the crease of Castiel's thigh, nosing at the base of his slowly hardening dick, smoothing his hands along the twitching, fluttering muscles of Castiel's abdomen. Cas closes his eyes, and little breaths of surprise are punched out of him at every new touch, every swipe of Dean's tongue or soft press of his lips, teasing around his burgeoning erection but not quite getting there yet.

                By the time Dean closes his mouth around the head of Castiel's cock, Cas is fully hard and leaking in anticipation, and he gasps and arches a little off the bed. His injuries from last night protest the movement slightly, but the pain is overpowered by the pleasure as Dean teases his tongue into the slit and under the crown at the sensitive nerves.

                "Wait, wait," Castiel pants, reaching down and grasping Dean's shoulder for a moment, "Am I even supposed to be doing this? I have a concussion."

                Dean snorts a laugh and pulls off for a moment. "Just tell me if you get light-headed or nauseous or anything, and I'll stop," he says, before promptly diving back down and wrapping his lips around Cas's cock.

                And that's about all the thinking Castiel can do right now. He nods shakily and drops his head back to the pillows, moaning low in his throat as Dean _very_ slowly swallows him down, one inch at the time, gradual heat engulfing the length of Castiel's cock bit by bit. By the time he's lodged all the way down Dean's throat, and Dean's nose is buried in Castiel's short, trimmed pubes, Cas is panting and his legs are twitching in an attempt to keep himself from thrusting up into the tight heat of Dean's mouth.

                Dean seems to notice Castiel's struggle and laughs a little, the vibration torturous around Cas's length. Without even thinking, he reaches down and weaves his fingers through Dean's soft hair, just for something to hold onto, spreading his legs a little wider to accommodate Dean's broad shoulders and arching his back off the bed. Dean slides one hand up and presses it flat over Castiel's stomach, holding him down gently, and he pulls off just enough to suck in a breath before dipping back down and setting up a steady rhythm.

                It’s just about the most gentle blowjob Castiel has ever received – not that he’s received that many in his life, but still. Dean keeps the same pace the entire time, just a slow bobbing of his head, occasionally swirling his tongue around the head and teasing Castiel’s slit. His free hand gently rolls Cas’s balls, and occasionally Dean will massage his thumb into Cas’s perineum.

                Castiel feels that burning low in his abdomen, building slowly, and his soft gasps become guttural moans as time goes on. He didn’t know blowjobs could _be_ like this. It doesn’t feel urgent. It doesn’t feel over-stimulating. It’s just about the most relaxing blowjob he’s ever had.

                When he comes, it’s a slow crescendo that takes his breath away and has his thighs tensing up and shaking as he gradually tips over that edge and spills into Dean’s mouth with a warning tug on his hair. But just like always, Dean dutifully swallows every drop, milking Cas through it as he pulses down Dean’s throat.

                Castiel collapses back into the bed panting, and lays there just coming down from the high as Dean pulls off of his spent cock and tucks it back into his boxers. Cas only opens his eyes when Dean crawls back up his body and hovers over him with a grin on his face. Castiel can’t help but smile back, swallowing hard and catching his breath. He feels Dean’s half-hard dick brush against his thigh through his boxers, and Castiel starts to reach for it to return the favor, but Dean catches his hand, shaking his head.

                “It’s okay,” he says, pulling Cas’s hand up to his mouth and kissing his palm, “Tonight’s about you. I’m good.”

                Castiel studies his face. “Are you sure?” he asks, and Dean smiles and nods, dipping down and placing a tender kiss on his lips.

                “Let’s just go to sleep,” he replies, and then immediately yawns as if proving his point.

                Castiel chuckles and brushes his thumb across the tired circles under Dean’s eyes again, eyeing him with naked affection. But it’s too dark for him to be all that embarrassed about it. “Come here,” Cas says softly, and Dean huffs a little laugh, curling up against Cas’s side and laying his head on Castiel’s chest, one thigh slotted between Cas’s, and his arm draped over Castiel’s midsection like a koala bear.

                Castiel holds him snug, and pulls the blankets over them, setting his alarm before yawning and settling back into the pillows. Within minutes, Dean is snoring softly against his chest, and Castiel smiles, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair and closing his eyes. Despite what happened last night, despite Alastair and the hospital and the police, this is definitely the best birthday Castiel has ever had, even if it’s a day late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out some more really awesome fan art/gif sets made for this fic :) -- 
> 
>  [Art 1](http://rieraclaelin.tumblr.com/post/121114779509/just-a-small-little-drawing-of-how-i-pictured-the)
> 
>  [Art 2](http://deadlyballlpointpens.tumblr.com/post/121154080631/ok-so-i-kinda-felt-compelled-to-draw-this-scene)
> 
>  [Art 3](http://the-eye-of-the-assbutt.tumblr.com/post/121292801671/delayed-by-a-few-days-may-have-been-off-of-tumblr)
> 
>  [Gifset for Chapter 30](http://camwelgrace.tumblr.com/post/121235469086/hautleys-bend-by-the-light-of-the-moon-gifset-i)


	32. Jigsaw

Castiel doesn’t go back to school until a week later. It’s not so much doctor’s orders as it is _Missouri’s_ orders that he stay home, despite his insistence that he’s okay. She’s like the concerned mother Castiel never had. He spends the week sitting on her claw foot couch and drinking every variation of healing tea she puts in his hands, from the ones that taste like roses, to the ones that taste like mud.

                By the time he gets back to school the following week, he actually _is_ feeling massively better than how he imagined he’d feel a week after nearly being killed.

                People stare. It’s been a while since people stared at Castiel, but he’s not unnerved by it. He imagines he looks like some sort of variation of Frankenstein with the stitches on his forehead and the bruises on his neck. Or maybe, perhaps, word has gotten around about _why_ he looks like this. It’s a small town – word spreads fast. Maybe people know what Alastair did to Castiel, and that the police are after him. When you live in a town where nothing ever really happens, it’s exciting news when one of your fellow students is wanted by the police.

                But of course, Alastair is nowhere to be found.

                It’s been a week and Castiel has yet to be informed of his arrest. Nobody knows where Al is. He’s just…disappeared. Perhaps someone warned him that he was wanted for assault, and Alastair skipped town. Or maybe he’s still in Rail Pass, and just hiding out on one of the backwoods properties. As much as Alastair’s absence angers and concerns Castiel, it comes as a bit of a relief too. If Al is too busy hiding out from the police – who are taking Castiel’s case much more seriously now that it seems Alastair is evading arrest – then it means he won’t have time to bother Castiel or Dean.

                And really, wasn’t that the whole point of going to the police in the first place?

                Castiel is standing at his locker on Monday morning the week of midterm exams, trying to juggle his books, feeling a bit flustered because he's been gone from school for a week and he has three important exams today, the material for which he's rusty on. He's not really paying attention to the other students around him, so he doesn't hear someone approaching him until a pair of arms wraps around his middle and there are soft lips pressing to the side of his neck.

                Despite Castiel's mild panic about midterms, he still smiles because he knows instantly that it's Dean behind him, the scent of cigarettes and citrus wafting under his nose. Dean presses a few kisses to the side of Cas's neck, right over the healing fingernail marks still there from Alastair, and then rests his chin on Castiel's shoulder from behind.

                "Missouri finally let you come back, huh?" Dean says, absently rocking Castiel side to side a little as Cas hides his smile and continues to stuff random papers and textbooks into his backpack to carry around to classes today.

                "Just in time for exams," Castiel confirms, "I'm nervous."

                Dean shakes his head. "Don't be. You've been studying for weeks. You'll do fine," he says, kissing Cas's shoulder, "And besides, spring break is next week. All you gotta do is get through exams, and then we're free for a whole week."

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, his test-jitters cooling off marginally as he listens to Dean's rough reassuring voice. "It sounds like you have some big plans for spring break."

                Dean hums a little, his hold around Castiel tightening marginally. "You might be right," he agrees teasingly, at the same time as he grinds his crotch subtly against Castiel's backside. Dean isn't hard or anything right now, but the implication is clear, and Cas stiffens, gulping a little.

                "How do you expect me to be able to pay attention in my exams when you do that?" he grumbles, only half-annoyed, and mostly turned on. Dean chuckles and kisses the side of Castiel's neck again.

                Before he can say anything more, there's a loud _smack_ ing sound, and Dean yelps in surprise, jumping a little, his hold loosening from around Castiel's middle.

                " _Good_ _morning_ , my little lovebirds!" Gabriel greets loudly, grinning and swinging around the rolled up notebook that he just used to smack Dean across the ass with. Dean rolls his eyes, rubbing his tender backside for a second and glowering at Gabriel.

                Castiel huffs a small laugh. "Good morning Gabe," he greets, and Gabriel grins wider, clapping Cas on the shoulder.

                "Good to have you back, bro," he smiles, laughing as Dean recovers from having his ass spanked this early on a Monday morning. Dean dives in and starts a shoving match with Gabe, and Castiel smiles as he watches them out of the corner of his eye, finishing up at his locker. It's nice to see Dean and Gabriel getting along so well now, even if they have what can only be constituted as a sibling relationship.

                Just as Castiel finishes organizing all the study materials he needs today and closes his locker, Gordon and Zachariah walk by. Seeing them doesn't scare Cas nearly as much as it used to anymore. It puts him on edge a little, but Gordon and Zach have always been sort of like the muscle behind the whole group of Cancers. They're not the instigators, they're the followers. They did what Alastair said, and before that, sadly, what Dean said. They're not much of a threat anymore.

                Which is why it surprises Castiel when Gabriel and Dean spot them, and immediately stop pushing each other around, instead stepping in front of Castiel like a protective barrier between Cas and his bullies. Gordon and Zach don't try anything as they walk by, just glare at Dean and Gabriel guarding Castiel like he's some kind of precious gem. Dean and Gabe remain protectively in front of Cas until Gordon and Zach disappear around the corner at the end of the hall, and then they relax again, going back to shoving each other.

                Castiel blushes in embarrassment. "You guys don't have to do that, you know," he says, slinging his backpack onto his shoulder and glancing over at them.

                Gabe gives Dean one last shove and looks at Castiel, coming up and ruffling his hair. "Well, it's just not in me to let you get hurt again," he says, "So we're gonna do whatever it takes to keep shitheads like that away from you."

                Dean comes over and reaches up, smoothing the frayed edge of Castiel's bandage down on his forehead before nodding his head towards Gabriel. "What he said," he adds with a grin.

                Castiel looks between the two of them, and despite the fact that he's embarrassed, he feels warmth bloom in his chest. Gabriel and Dean are just too protective for their own good. Castiel wonders what he's done to deserve this kind of care.

                The five minute warning bell rings, and students start heading for their first scheduled midterm exams. Gabe claps his hands and rubs them together, effectively ending whatever that little moment the three of them just had, and bidding them both farewell. Cas and Dean watch as he saunters off down the hallway, and then Dean leans in really quickly and plants a brief kiss on Cas's lips, neither of them really caring that people still gawk at them when they do this.

                "Good luck on your tests, you'll do great," Dean says, smiling and giving Cas's arm a reassuring squeeze.

                Cas smiles. "You too," he replies, "Let's see if all that studying with Kevin paid off for you."

                Dean rolls his eyes, looking a little nervous. "Well, it's either I pass these tests, or work at McDonald's forever, so...I don't care if I have to suck Principal Roman's dick. I'm gonna pass."

                Castiel crinkles his nose in disgust, but cocks his head to the side in consideration. "You know, I get the feeling that Principal Roman is very hygienic, so that might not be so bad."

                Dean snorts. "I'll just close my eyes and pretend it's you," he says, laughing and leaning in for another brief kiss.

                Castiel chuckles and kisses him back, sliding one hand under Dean's jacket and splaying it on the side of Dean's stomach, feeling his muscles tense and relax at the contact. "See you at lunch?" he asks, and Dean licks his lips, nodding.

                "Me and Kevin are meeting in the library in a couple hours to study some more if you wanna join us," he replies, and Castiel smiles, smoothing his hand on Dean's side down to the sharp cut of his hipbone that Castiel can feel even through his shirt.

                "I'll be there," he says, enjoying the way Dean shivers a little at the feeling of Castiel's hand on his side. They break apart before they can get too distracted, and Castiel smiles the whole way to his first exam.

 

*       *       *

 

                Despite missing a week of school, Castiel feels good about how he does on his first midterm exam of the day. The tests aren't as hard as all the teachers are talking them up to be, and Castiel finishes his exam before everyone else in the class. He hands it in to his teacher up front, and then has to sit quietly at his desk until the hour ends. Which leaves him with too much time to think.

                He's been thinking a lot lately. There's not much else to do when you're stuck at your neighbor's house watching bad daytime TV for a week straight. As much as Castiel doesn't want to think about what happened with Alastair the other night, his mind constantly wanders back to it over and over again. The look on Alastair's face when he and the other three boys jumped Castiel outside of work. The smell of the carpet in Alastair's trunk just before they opened it and dragged Castiel out. The feeling of that boy's nose breaking against Castiel's knuckles. The dusty, artificial pressure of the beer bottle being shoved down Cas's throat.

                He thinks about all of it, and keeps considering to himself which event in his life was more terrifying: being stabbed by that bully in Little Rock, or being strangled with a tire iron by Alastair. It's weird that Castiel is only eighteen years old, and already he has these types of experiences to choose from when he thinks back on his life.

                But that's not what's actually bothering him the most.

                The more he thinks about that night with Alastair, the more he recalls the cryptic things that Al whispered in his ear about Dean.

                Cas was too out of it the night of the attack to really take them into much consideration, but now that he's had so much time to think about what Al said, it's only served to confuse and concern him even more.

                _"You're feistier than Dean. I like it."_

Alastair talked about Dean like they once had some sort of relationship. But Dean never said anything to Castiel about he and Al ever being lovers. And even so, if Dean and Alastair were ever together like that, why would Alastair remark upon the fact that Castiel _cries prettier than Dean_?

                _"Actually...well, maybe not. Nobody really cries prettier than our boy Dean, do they?"_

Castiel has known for a while that _something_ happened between Dean and Alastair. He sees it in every minute shift of Dean's expression when Alastair is nearby, feels it in the way Dean stiffens and bristles when Alastair looks at him. Something _happened_ between them, and while Castiel can't even pretend to know what, the things Alastair whispered in Castiel's ear the night of the attack are almost confirmation of that fact.

                Maybe Castiel is over-thinking it too much. Maybe he's looking too much into it, looking for something that isn't there. He considers that maybe he's just imagining up conflicts where they don't exist. But he knows that's not true.

                He's not _imagining_ that glazed over fear in Dean's eyes whenever Alastair is mentioned. He's not _imagining_ the way Dean shuts down completely whenever Alastair's name is even brought up in conversation. He's not _imagining_ the white-knuckled grip Dean often has on Castiel's hand when Alastair walks by in the cafeteria, or they pass by The Docks while Al is out there smoking and grinning at them like he knows all their dirty little secrets.

                _"Dean fought a lot harder than you."_

No, Castiel is not imagining this. If his instincts and observations of Dean weren't enough to confirm that something happened, the cryptic little things Alastair whispered in his ear the night of the attack are.

                By the time Castiel's first exam is over and the hour ends, Cas has worked himself up into a bit of a bad mood. He feels like he needs to help Dean, but _how_? And how do you help someone who doesn't even admit that something's wrong? Who seems to be hiding it so well? And the real question is: should Castiel even ask Dean about it, or just try to let this go? If Dean's not talking about whatever it is, then maybe it's for the better that Castiel just let him work things out on his own. Who is Castiel to pry?

                No matter what Castiel chooses to do, though, he's still not going to stop worrying. Because that's what he _does_ with the people he cares about. He worries.

                During his free hour, he meets Kevin and Dean in the library like Dean said, and the three of them sit there and study for a while for their next exams. Castiel can't really focus on the flashcards and study guides he's made, though, because he keeps sneaking little glances at Dean, studying his profile, the way his lips move a tiny bit along with the words he's reading, the way he counts on his fingers sometimes, the way his eyes light up a little when he memorizes something successfully.

                Castiel stares at him like the answers to his own worries will be written somewhere in the angles of Dean's face.

                _"If you weren't around, Dean would be warming_ my _bed every night instead of yours."_

What did Alastair _do_ to Dean?

                Castiel can tell that Dean knows he's staring at him. Dean even glances up at him a few times and gives him a small smile, his eyebrows pressing together as if to silently ask _why do you keep looking at me_?

                When their free hour ends and Castiel heads off to his next exam, he can't really focus on anything but his worries. He knows he's probably acting strange, distracted, distant, but he doesn't care. Alastair's words just keep floating through his mind, taunting him, making Castiel's worry for Dean that much more pressing. Even now, there are so many things that Dean is hiding. And Castiel knows he's not _entitled_ to those secrets, not at all. But he wants to know, so that he can help. So that he can understand why Dean puts cigarettes out on his own skin, and used to cry himself to sleep after they had sex back in the beginning of their relationship, and blanches pale white at every mention of Alastair's name.

                Castiel's second exam passes in a blur, and he's not really even sure how he did on it, but right now he doesn't care all that much. By the time lunch rolls around, he's got a headache from trying to fit together this huge jigsaw puzzle in his head for which he doesn't even have all the pieces. Dean notices how quiet Castiel is being and leans over partway through lunch, bumping Cas's shoulder with his own and squeezing his hand in his lap.

                "Everything okay?" he asks, and Castiel blinks out of his whirling thoughts, looking over at Dean's too-beautiful face next to his.

                He studies Dean for a moment, but finds no answers, and just nods. Dean's forehead creases in a little bit of concern and he cocks his head to the side.

                "Exams go okay this morning?" he asks, as if searching for a reason why Castiel is acting so weird.

                Castiel swallows and nods. "Everything's fine," he promises, even though that's a lie. Dean studies him for another moment, and Cas can tell that Dean doesn't believe him, but he just shrugs a little and offers Cas his Jell-O cup from his lunch tray (which Gabriel promptly snatches away before Cas can accept it).

                Castiel tries to participate a little bit in the conversation about the coughing symphony Charlie started up in her Western Civ exam with Dean this morning, but mostly, he's just lost in his own thoughts for the rest of the lunch hour, and for the rest of the day. God, but he hopes the police find Alastair soon.

 

*       *       *

 

                After school that day, Dean goes in for a quick little half-hour session with Cara. He's been going to talk to her a lot lately, even more than Sam has been. Talking to Cara makes him feel a little better, and sometimes even dims that urge Dean feels to burn himself. And if talking to Cara will keep Dean from burning himself, then that's good enough for Dean.

                She teaches him a few more breathing exercises to control his anger, and also a few exercises to calm himself down in the event of a panic attack, and then they just chat about exams and Castiel and Sammy. Dean tells Cara about how weird Castiel was acting today, like he was lost in thought. He tells her about all the new drawings Sam has done, none of which have any sort of gore or demonic infants in them, thank god. He tells her about how well he thinks his exams went today but that he's worried about the midterms he has yet to take tomorrow and the next couple days after.  

                By the time he leaves her office, he's feeling much better than when he went in, like he always does after talking with her. Crowley texted him earlier and they made plans to meet up after school for an hour or two, just to hang out, so Dean heads towards the back door of the school leading out to The Docks. Gordon and Zach aren't there, which is good, and of course Alastair has dropped off the face of the planet ever since Castiel pressed charges against him, so his ugly mug is nowhere to be seen, thank Christ.

                Crowley is sneaking sips of what is undoubtedly Glencraig from his little flask in his pea coat when Dean walks up, and Dean declines when Crowley offers a drink to him. He's going over to Castiel's later - he doesn't want to show up smelling like John Winchester, and Glencraig is nasty anyway. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it up, settling on one of the boulders at The Docks across from Crowley, laughing as Crowley tries to hide his flask from Victor, who's busy making his after-school security rounds of the building behind them.

                "You're in an uncharacteristically good mood," Crowley notes, gritting his teeth as he takes another swig from his flask before tucking it away inside his coat again.

                Dean rolls his eyes as he takes a long drag on his cigarette, enjoying the soothing cool of the menthol sliding down the sides of his throat and into his lungs. "What, I'm not allowed to be in a good mood?"

                Crowley snorts and lights up a cigarette of his own. "It's not in the Dean Winchester repertoire," he states, voice muffled by the cigarette held between his lips.

                Dean glares at him and Crowley lets out a laugh. "See, now _there's_ the Dean I know," he says, exhaling a plume of white smoke into the chill March air. Dean just rolls his eyes again and takes another drag on his menthol, looking out at the little bridge and the river beside The Docks. He wishes the weather would get warmer already - he's sick of the cold. Spring break is next week, even though it's not even spring yet, and the weather's going to suck the whole time.

                Of course, Dean doesn't plan on going outside for the whole break so much as he plans on spending every waking moment in Castiel's bed. Or on his countertop. Or in his shower. Or any other number of places that invite a whole lot of touching.

                He smiles to himself as he thinks about it, and Crowley studies his face. "You really _are_ in a good mood," he says, "What's got you all sunshine and roses?"

                Dean blinks out of his thoughts and looks away from the river, back at Crowley. He flushes a little in embarrassment and hides his expression by taking another drag on his smoke. "Nothing," he replies, and then adds as a distraction, "How were your exams today?"   

                Crowley glances behind himself to make sure Victor isn't walking by, and then sneaks another sip from his flask before answering. "Since when do you want to have a chat about school?"

                Dean sits back, scoffing. "I just can't do anything right with you this afternoon, can I?"

                Crowley laughs at his disgruntled expression, and digs in his pocket. "Here, I have a gift for you."

                Dean catches a small wad of something as Crowley throws it at him. When he opens his hand and looks down, he finds a tiny baggie of white powder. Even though he's really not an expert in the field, he knows instantly what it is.

                "Cocaine, Crowley? Really?" he asks, holding it up in the air. Crowley slaps his hand back down, glancing behind himself like someone's watching.

                "Keep it down, you dolt!" he snaps, "In case you've forgotten, that's an _illegal_ substance you're holding in your hands."

                Dean snorts and studies the little bag of powder. "What do you want me to do with it?" he asks.

                "Don't pretend like you're some vanilla princess Dean," Crowley replies with a snort, "It's a gift. Use it, share it, I don't care."

                Dean raises an eyebrow. "What are you, a drug dealer now? What's with all the freebies lately?"

                Crowley fixes him with a look. "I've always _been_ in the business of dealing, you moron," he points out, "I found a new supplier from Johnson State who wants me to distribute some of his product for free. Just a few samples."

                Dean chews on the inside of his cheek as he studies his friend, and then looks back down at the cocaine in his hands. He considers it for a moment, but then remembers what happened the last time he did drugs with Crowley, and waking up in Castiel's bed with no memory of how he got there, and he shakes his head a little. "Nah, man, I'm good," he says, holding it out for Crowley to take back.

                Crowley fixes him with a look and rolls his eyes, reaching out, and instead of taking the coke back, he wraps his whole hand around Dean's, closing Dean's hand around the drugs. "Just keep it," he says, "For now. You might change your mind."

                Dean eyes him for a second, and then sighs, pulling his hand back and slipping the little bag of cocaine into the pocket of his jeans before taking another drag on his cigarette and fiddling with the elephant hair bracelet on his wrist from Sam.

                They hang out there for a couple hours, just talking about random, unimportant topics. Dean notices that Crowley carefully avoids any mentions of Alastair, Gordon, or Zach, for which Dean is thankful. It seems Crowley has finally gotten the point to not bring them up in conversation. He does mention Ghost Town once, fleetingly, and Dean just grits his teeth and changes the subject before Crowley suggests that they go hang out there for a while today.

                Castiel has work until seven tonight, so Dean goes home instead of directly to Cas's house once he and Crowley part ways a couple hours later. When he gets home, he ducks into his room really quick and stuffs the little bag of cocaine into a sock in his drawer, just for safe keeping. He'd rather not be walking around with a bag of drugs in his pocket. Maybe he'll flush it at some point. Or maybe he and Castiel can snort a little bit together, just to try it. Something tells Dean that Castiel wouldn't be so keen on doing anything more hardcore than marijuana though.

                He pops into the bathroom down the hall really quick, winding the Ace bandage around his burnt arm now so he doesn't have to do it later before he goes over to Cas's. Then he heads down the hallways towards Sammy's bedroom.

                Dean hangs out with Sam for a while, and Sam forces him to study for a bit for his exams tomorrow while Sam does homework at his desk. Dean lays out flat on his stomach on Sam's bed and pours over notes and study guides and flashcards that Kevin helped him make. He has his biology and his math midterms tomorrow. He's not worried about math, but biology is going to be a challenge, and he chews his lip thoughtfully as he reads his notes again and again for it, trying to remember how good it felt when Castiel said that Dean is smart. Dean tries to believe that, but it's hard when he can't even remember what mitochondria is sometimes.

                Sam already seems to know that Dean's going to bring him to the Singer's house tonight. He packs up a bag without Dean having to ask, and they leave the house just as John is arriving home. They duck behind the bush out front and wait for the garage door to close before heading down the street. Dean waves to the squash lady, who's actually outside right now with a couple of her little dogs, picking through the dead leaves and rotten squash in her garden even though it's really not gardening season.

                When they get to the Singer's house, Ellen makes Dean come inside and have at least one small bowl of beer cheese soup that she's made from scratch, and Dean's glad he does. It's absolutely amazing, and he asks for seconds even, flicking Jo when she makes fun of his huge appetite. Bobby is still at the shop, and when Dean glances at the clock on the stove, it's almost seven. He thanks Ellen for sharing her soup with him, and ruffles Sammy's hair, and gives Jo a kiss on the forehead in farewell before slipping out the front door, lighting up another cigarette to smoke on the way to Cas's.

                He feels strangely good. Crowley was right. Dean's in a good mood today. It's weird. Nothing particularly spectacular has happened, but he feels good. Maybe it's talking out his issues with Cara that's got his spirits so high, even though he's not exactly offering up all his deepest darkest secrets to her. He still hasn't told her about his little burning problem, and he's not sure he _plans_ to tell her. And he sure as _hell_ hasn't told her about the incident at Ghost Town.

                But still. He feels good. And he feels even better that he's going to see Castiel now, because he _always_ feels good when he's going to see Castiel. Cas just has that effect on him.

                Dean smiles to himself a little, tucking one hand in his pocket as the sun starts to set and the temperature of the evening dips into an icy mid-March chill. Chewing on the minty filter of his cigarette, he passes by Hautley's Bend and listens to the ominous creaking of the swing hinges in the breeze, watches the merry-go-round spin a bit in the wind like there are little ghost children on it. Not even the creepy barking of a dog somewhere off in the trees, nor the quiet cars rolling by on the street can dampen Dean's unusually high spirits.

 

*       *       *

 

                When Castiel hears the knock on the front door, he automatically smiles, despite the fact that he’s still worried, still obsessing over the things that Alastair said about Dean. They’re playing on a loop in his head, over and over, and each time, they make less and less sense.

                Dean doesn’t even wait for Castiel to come down the front hall and open the door for him. He just walks into the house, shrugging out of his leather jacket and grinning when he sees Castiel. Cas yelps in surprise when Dean automatically gathers him up in an enthusiastic hug, backing him up against the wall in the hallway and crushing their lips together.

                Castiel’s surprise is quickly replaced by amusement, and he lets his eyes fall closed, melting into the kiss for a moment, enjoying the fresh taste of tobacco on Dean’s tongue, and a deeper taste like rainwater. Dean is mindful of Castiel’s still-healing injuries, even though they’ve had a week to close over, so he doesn’t hold on very hard - a fact that Castiel takes advantage of. He spins both of them around and Dean sucks in a sharp breath of surprise as he’s pinned back against the wall instead and Castiel dives in for a deeper kiss, both of them clinging to each other like this is the first chance they’ve gotten to kiss in years.

                Not that they’ve been able to do much in the way of intimacy in the past week with Castiel recovering from the attack from Alastair.

                The kiss lasts for several minutes, and Dean isn’t even _trying_ not to grind against Castiel, even if they’re not actually working themselves up to do anything right now. They still have dinner to eat, and Cas only just dropped Anna off at Missouri’s for the night not ten minutes ago. They’re not in a hurry.

                Castiel breaks off the kiss first, pulling away and placing a hand on Dean’s chest to hold him against the wall when Dean tries to go in for another kiss. Dean groans in faux frustration, his head thumping back, and he catches his breath, grinning widely at Cas.

                “Hey,” he greets, and Castiel smiles at him, trying to ignore his own useless worries for now because Dean seems to be in a really good mood, and Cas doesn’t want to ruin it by bringing up things Dean potentially doesn’t want to talk about.

                “Hello Dean,” he says, removing his hand from Dean’s chest and placing it instead on the side of Dean’s face, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. Dean leans into the touch for a moment and then pushes himself away from the wall, sniffing the air and humming.

                “What’s for dinner? It smells good,” he asks, and Castiel chuckles, weaving his fingers with Dean’s and pulling him down the hall towards the kitchen.

                “Three-cheese ravioli,” he replies, “I made it from scratch.”

                Dean snorts. “Well now you’re just showing off,” he accuses, using Castiel’s hand in his to pull him in for another brief kiss as they make their way over to the stove.

                Missouri gave Castiel a lesson on how to make the best Italian red sauce and homemade ravioli this past week while Cas was stuck hanging out at her house during the day. He supposes there are advantages to having the shit kicked out of you – you get to stay home from school and learn good cooking instead. He dips a wooden spoon into the made-from-scratch red sauce and blows on it for a moment before holding it out for Dean to taste. It reminds Castiel of the first time Dean came to his house, when he made spaghetti, and neither of them really knew where they stood in their tentative relationship.

                The memory makes him smile. Things have changed so much in the past couple of months.

                Dean smacks his lips as he tastes some of the red sauce and then nods his approval, picking up another spoon and poking at the ravioli boiling in some water on the other burner. While Dean tends to the things on the stove, Castiel makes a Caesar salad to have on the side that he’s going to force Dean to eat at least _some_ of, despite the fact that Dean hates salad.

                Even though it’s only Monday night, and not their usually Friday, they pick out a movie and settle in front of the TV to eat dinner and watch. Castiel pretends to pay attention to the movie, laughing when Dean laughs and eating his dinner. But really, he just keeps watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, looking for a shift in his expression or _something_ to indicate to Castiel that Cas is right about the things that Alastair said – that something happened to Dean and he’s trying to hide it.

                Castiel knows he’s being a little irrational, but he can’t help it. He _worries_. It’s just what he does. If he’s not worrying about Anna, he’s worrying about one of his friends, and if he’s not worrying about one of his friends, he’s worrying about Dean. It’s an endless cycle, and when he worries about Dean, he _really_ worries, because Dean is one of the most important people to him.

                By the time the movie ends, Castiel has a small headache again because of all the worries floating around in his brain. Alastair’s nasally voice whispering in his mind, saying over and over the things he said about Dean at Ghost Town a week ago. Cas is back to square one in terms of how helpless he feels when it comes to saving Dean. Saving Dean from something that Castiel doesn’t even know exists. It’s so stupid.

                He’s quiet as they shut off the movie, the credits rolling up the screen disappearing as they power it down. Cas doesn’t say anything as they clear their dishes and clean up the kitchen before heading upstairs to hang out as usual. They brush their teeth in the bathroom and wash their faces, and Castiel spots the Ace bandage wrapped around Dean’s arm again, and he _knows_ what’s under it, and it _bothers_ him, and he doesn’t know how to make it _right_.

                They head to Cas’s bedroom and strip out of everything but their boxers, and Castiel hands Dean the pair of too-big sweatpants that Dean usually wears when he comes over here and Dean smiles at him in thanks as he pulls them on. Even that smile is bothering Castiel, because he can’t help but wonder how fake it is, how much of a mask. He knows he’s being dramatic, he knows he’s over-thinking things, but he can’t stop.

                As he pulls on his own pair of sweatpants, he watches Dean pile his clothes in the corner, his necklace that Sam gave him bumping gently against his bare sternum, his beautiful, twisted scars catching the dim light of the room in off-white shades, his bare feet quiet and heavy on the floorboards as he walks.

                “Okay man, what is it?” Dean’s voice breaks the silence, and Castiel blinks from where he was staring at Dean’s bowed legs, his thoughts scattering as he looks back up at Dean’s face. Dean has stopped walking and is just looking at him.

                “What?” Castiel asks, and Dean snorts, eyeing him.

                “You’ve been acting weird all day,” he points out, “What’s gotten into you?”

                Castiel flushes a bit in embarrassment, because apparently he’s a lot more transparent than he originally thought. He shakes his head a little, after a moment’s hesitation, and looks away. “I’m fine,” he replies, and even to his _own_ ears it sounds like a lie. He’s never been a very good liar.

                Dean narrows his eyes at him. “Okay,” he says, “You wanna try that again?”

                Castiel huffs a little breath, looking back up at Dean. Alastair’s voice is whispering in the back of his mind, whispering those cryptic things about Dean, and it’s bothering him, like having a speaker right in Cas’s ear that he can’t pull out. He wishes he could just let it go, but he can’t.

                He studies Dean for a moment, swallowing hard. Dean is in such a good mood, Castiel doesn’t want to ruin it by bringing Alastair up. But by the look on Dean’s face, Dean isn’t going to let this go now.

                Castiel sighs, licking his lips and looking down again, praying there won’t be bad consequences to talking to Dean about this.

                He clears his throat a little. “Alastair…” he says, trailing off. Dean is quiet for a second, and when Castiel looks back up at him, his face has fallen slightly, jaw stiff, fingers twitching, the way Dean always reacts whenever Alastair’s name is mentioned. Castiel regrets it the second the name leaves his mouth.

                “What about him?” Dean asks, his voice gone stiff.

                Well, great. Dean’s good mood is officially gone for the night. _Great job, idiot_ , Castiel thinks to himself, looking at Dean almost apologetically. But he’s not going to drop the subject now. He already started it.

                “He…he said some things to me,” Castiel admits, watching every little flicker in Dean’s expression, “At Ghost Town last week. About…about you.”

                Dean’s forehead creases and relaxes so quickly and so subtly that Castiel halfway thinks he imagines it. It’s kind of awkward the way they’re standing, several feet apart, Dean’s body stiff, Castiel facing him sideways, as if trying to hide the fact that he’s genuinely concerned and has been for a while now.

                “I thought you said you didn’t remember what Al said to you,” Dean points out, almost like he’s dancing around the subject. Castiel searches his memories and, yes, he _did_ say that to Dean. The night of the attack, when Castiel told Dean what happened to him before they went to the hospital, he told Dean he didn’t remember what Alastair had said. Maybe as some sort of half-assed method to protect Dean. Bang-up job it did.

                “I lied,” he admits, a little sheepishly, swallowing.

                Dean doesn’t respond, is silent for a few moments. Castiel studies his face, and Dean’s throat ripples a little as he swallows, almost like he’s trying to shove something back down inside of himself. Cas sees the mask slipping a little before Dean lowers his gaze, looking at the floor and successfully hiding his eyes like he knew they were about to reveal something to Castiel.

                As much as it pains Cas to see Dean coming apart a little bit at the seams right now, after so little time talking about this subject, it also encourages him a bit. Because maybe they’re _getting_ somewhere right now. He takes a small step towards Dean, turning to face him fully.

                “Dean,” Cas says, hesitating before making himself continue, “Did he…did he do something to you? Something you haven’t told me?”

                Dean shifts from one foot to the other, and even this far away from him, in the silence of the room, Castiel hears him gulp a bit. He seems to be fighting for something to say, so Castiel gives him a moment, and Dean looks off to the side, his jaw working a little, avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t look at Castiel when he asks, “What did he say to you?” It’s not the answer Castiel was looking for, but it’s not a _no_ either, which makes something twist a bit inside Castiel’s stomach.

                Cas swallows and his forehead creases a little as he licks his lips, thinking back. “Um…he said…” Castiel starts, fishing through his memories for some of the choice phrases that Alastair said about Dean that night. That Dean _cries pretty_ , and Dean _fought harder_ than Cas. Castiel sifts through the memories, and chews on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t really want to say any of these things out loud to Dean. He’s worried they might disturb him.

                “You know,” he says, after a moment of thought, “It doesn’t even matter what he said. I don’t know what he meant anyway.”

                Dean glances up at him again, and there’s something raw in his eyes that Castiel doesn’t have time to interpret before Dean drags that mask back into place. Dean huffs a little humorless breath and shrugs weakly. “Yeah…” he agrees, swallowing, “He was probably just trying to scare you.”

                But no, that’s not it. Castiel knows that’s not it. Dean is trying to drop the subject right now, but Castiel’s not sure he should let him, especially when, in how short of a conversation they’ve had so far, Dean is already this visibly shaken. Cas cocks his head to the side and studies Dean, even as Dean looks away again and down at the floor, his hands shifting awkwardly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He rocks on his heels a little bit.

                “Dean…” Castiel begins again, unsure how to even approach this subject. He’s never cared this much before. “What happened?” he asks, hesitating, “I know something happened…Please tell me.”

                Dean doesn’t say anything, but his face isn’t completely hidden, and Castiel can see a crease form between his eyebrows, and the edges of his jaw bulging a bit as he clenches it too tight. One of Dean’s arms comes up and he rubs at the Ace bandage wrapping his other forearm awkwardly, like a little kid that got caught doing something bad.

                “Dean?” Castiel coaxes, feeling a small lump form in his throat, because he’s scared that Dean is going to turn and run out of the room, maybe leave the house and not speak to Castiel again. Cas has never pried this deeply into a subject that makes someone else so uncomfortable before, and he has no idea if he’s even doing this right. He doesn’t even know if there _is_ a right way to do this.

                Dean lifts his eyes, and this time when he looks at Castiel, he doesn’t even try to hide the naked _hurt_ anymore. The mask is completely gone, and Castiel feels his heart knot up at the raw expression on Dean’s face, like skinning someone alive and finally seeing what’s behind the curtain. Blood and veins and sinew, that’s all Castiel sees in Dean’s eyes right now. And if he needed any more validation that something did indeed happen to Dean, this would be it. This is his proof, the look on Dean’s face, right now.

                Cas swallows. “What is it?” he asks, his voice quieter than before, hesitating, wanting to go forward and wrap his arms around Dean’s suddenly-smaller body but not sure if he should.

                Dean’s mouth twitches a little, and he shakes his head, rubbing at his arm almost like he’s soothing an animal. “It’s nothing,” he says, and his voice is strained.

                Castiel inches forward a little. “Dean, please…”

                “It’s not a big deal,” Dean blurts, shaking his head again and looking down once more, “It’s nothing.” His voice cracks just a bit, and Dean starts breathing harder than before, his body shaking a little. “It’s nothing,” he repeats, in a whisper that almost sounds like it was meant for himself.

                Cas studies him, inching forward some more, because it’s not _nothing_. _Nothing_ doesn’t make a person react the way Dean is reacting right now.

                He doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t really get a chance to find out, because when Dean looks back up at him again, his eyes are glazed over a bit with unshed tears, and his chin quivers, and that’s all that Castiel needs to see to force his frozen body to move.

                “No, no, hey, come here, don’t cry,” Cas shushes, stepping forward and barely catching Dean in time as Dean falls into him, like his shaking legs can’t hold him up anymore. Dean bursts into tears, and Castiel feels a painful twist in his chest at the sound of Dean’s sobs. Cas didn’t want this. _Fuck_ , he didn’t want to make Dean cry. He didn’t want to break him apart. He just wanted to talk. _Damn it,_ he did this all wrong.

                Dean is shaking like he’s been caught out in a snowstorm, and his head is buried in Cas’s shoulder as Cas struggles to hold him up with all of Dean’s weight leaning on him. Dean’s trembling hands reach out and claw at Castiel’s bare torso, clinging to him like if Dean doesn’t hold onto something, he’s going to shatter into a million pieces.

                It takes Castiel a minute to realize that Dean is saying something, through his tears, and Castiel strains to hear it, holding onto Dean tightly and rocking him, trying to shush him, but to no avail.

                “H-he wouldn’t listen. I didn’t want it, a-and I kept saying no, and he wouldn’t listen. He just-just kept going,” Dean croaks through his tears, and Castiel’s forehead creases in confusion, because he still doesn’t know what Dean is talking about.

                “Alastair?” he asks, and Dean sobs brokenly into his shoulder, nodding his head, his body erupting in another violent wave of shivers at even the mere mention of Alastair’s name. When Castiel feels Dean nod his confirmation, anger explodes inside Castiel’s gut, because he _knew_ it. He fucking _knew_ it.

                “Dean…what did he do to you?” Castiel asks, his voice gone cold as he tightens his arms around Dean almost protectively, as if trying to hold him together.

                Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, crying too hard, powerful sobs wracking his fragile frame. When he finally does speak again, it’s just a muddled mess of words. “I said n-no…I-I told him no. But he didn’t listen. He didn’t s-stop.”

                A sudden horrible realization dawns on Castiel.

                No…Dean can’t be talking about…

                Alastair didn’t…he didn’t hurt Dean like that…not like that…

                Castiel pulls in a breath, wanting to ask, because he _has_ to know. He can’t just jump to conclusions in his head about this. He has to know for sure what Dean is trying to tell him right now.

                He doesn’t get a chance to speak though, because Dean is sobbing out fragments of sentences again, through his tears, barely understandable.

                “It _hurt_ Cas…it h-hurt. He’s supposed to s-stop, when I said no,” Dean blubbers incoherently, “T-that’s what everyone tells you to say…just say _no_. B-but he didn’t stop. I said _no_ , and he didn’t stop.”

                Castiel feels a wetness on his own face, and he’s confused for a moment before he realizes he’s crying too, just a little bit, like he can’t even control it. He wants to pretend like he doesn’t know what Dean is talking about, wants to deny it to himself, but deep down, he knows. He fucking _knows_.

                Dean was raped.

                Dean was raped by Alastair.

                Castiel is all at once eviscerated inside, and tremendously, _murderously_ furious. He wants Alastair’s head on a plate. He wants to choke the life out of Alastair himself. And to hell with his own morals about not wanting to hurt anyone ever again in his life. Because Alastair is not a _person_ , he’s a _monster_. If Castiel didn’t know that before tonight, he sure as hell knows it now.

                He has to take a minute to pull himself together, standing there holding Dean’s sobbing form in the middle of the room. Because as much as he wants to go out and hunt down Alastair himself right now – and to hell with the cops that haven’t been able to catch him yet – he _can’t_. Because this isn’t _about_ him right now. This is about Dean.

                All at once, everything makes sense. It all makes sense now. How Dean didn’t want Castiel to touch him in the beginning, how he flinched away when Castiel tried to pleasure him back. How he trembled and looked almost _scared_ whenever he allowed Castiel to touch him. Castiel thought maybe he was just imagining that fear in Dean’s eyes back then, but now, it all makes sense. Dean _was_ scared. Because he was _attacked_. He was _raped_.

                No wonder Dean cried himself to sleep so many times after they had sex. No wonder he acted so weird.

                Castiel feels like an _idiot_. He should have known, or at least _guessed_ why Dean was acting that way. How could Cas be so stupid?

                Dean is still crying, has his face buried against Castiel’s neck and his shaking arms are wound around Castiel’s back, clinging to him just as hard as Cas is clinging to Dean. Castiel swallows back his anger, and just tries to remain here in the present instead of going off somewhere in his head and having fantasies about hunting down and killing Alastair for what he’s done.

                Dean needs him _here_ , right now. Dean _needs_ him.

                So Castiel gulps, sniffing, and he runs his hand up and down Dean’s trembling back, trying to calm him down. “Ssh, Dean, you’re okay. You’re going to be fine,” he whispers, and Dean only holds onto him harder, making a weird choking sound like he might throw up for a moment, and then crying again.

                “God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Castiel says, turning his head and burying his face in Dean’s hair, squeezing his eyes shut, “No one is ever going to hurt you like that again. I’m so sorry.”

                Dean hiccups and coughs, a wet, horrible sound, and he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t seem to have the ability to speak coherently right now, he’s crying so hard. Castiel lifts his head again, and forces himself to move, unwrapping his arms from around Dean and reaching back, taking his wrists one in each hand and gently prying Dean’s arms off of his body. Dean whimpers and clings to him, and Castiel gets a brief glimpse of his face. He’s a mess, tears and snot coating his cheeks, eyes red and agonized.

                Castiel swallows back his own threatening tears and pulls Dean over to the bed so they’re not standing awkwardly in the middle of the room anymore. Dean clings to him desperately and barely gives room for more than an inch between them, and Castiel allows it, laying them both down on the bed and spooning himself up behind Dean, wrapping him tightly in a mess of limbs and what he hopes is some sort of semblance of comfort.

                Dean rolls over almost instantly and buries his face in Cas’s chest, still crying, but trying to calm down as they lay there. Cas just holds him. He doesn’t know what else there is to say, so he says nothing. He just allows Dean to cry into his chest, and he cards his fingers gently through Dean’s hair, occasionally shushing him because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s never seen _anybody_ cry as hard as this in his life, and the fact that it’s Dean laying so broken and raw in his arms right now just breaks Castiel’s heart even more.

                All this time Dean’s been keeping this secret.

                Castiel can’t help but think back on all the times he and Dean have had sex. How rough Castiel sometimes got, how carried away. He feels _horrible_ about it now. Dean _seemed_ like he liked it at the time, but what if he didn’t? What if Castiel was so rough, and he scared Dean? What if Castiel made it even worse?

                He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think like that right now. Maybe they can discuss that later. For now, Cas just needs to hold himself together for Dean’s sake.

                It feels like hours before Dean’s bone-wracking sobs fade out into quiet sniffles and hiccups, and eventually, he’s just laying there in Castiel’s arms with his face buried in Cas’s chest, and he’s quiet. He’s stopped shaking too, tired himself out from the sudden onslaught of emotions.

                What a turn this night has taken.

                Castiel wonders briefly if Dean is asleep, he’s fallen so quiet, but then Dean sniffs again, and one of his hands comes up, gripping tentatively at Castiel’s side like he’s pulling himself back to reality, back to the present. Castiel swallows, his throat fluttering as he fights off the rest of the tears that he himself wants desperately to cry. He’s not _allowed_ to cry right now. That’s stupid. Dean’s the one who got hurt. Dean’s the one who gets to cry. Not Castiel.

                He gulps and licks his dry lips, his hand pausing where it’s carding through Dean’s soft hair.

                “Dean?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s talking to a spooked horse.

                He hears Dean gulp, and when he replies, “Yeah?” his voice is small and rough with tears and cracks in the middle of that one simple word.

                Castiel chews on his lip, swallowing again, unsure whether he’s allowed to ask questions. He doesn’t want to make this any worse than it already is, but he also wants to know. Maybe one question. He’ll allow himself just one question.

                “When?” he asks, gritting his teeth, and he feels Dean stiffen and relax a little in his arms.

                Dean takes a few minutes to answer, sniffling again, and his hand on Castiel’s side moves just a fraction, like he’s feeling Cas’s skin for the very first time. “Thanksgiving break,” he finally replies, sounding completely drained. Castiel tries to remember what happened around that time.

                Thanksgiving break.

                Late November.

                It dawns on him that it was around that time that Dean stopped bullying him. He lays there for a moment just trying to remember, because that whole first semester is sort of a blur of black eyes, and friends Castiel has never had, and an unrequited crush (or so Castiel thought). Then he remember what happened during Thanksgiving break.

                Gabriel took he, Charlie, and Kevin out into the woods for that ghost hunt. Dean came crashing through the trees. He was bleeding, hurt, scared, high on something. Castiel feels another knot form and twist painfully in his stomach.

                “That night…in the woods,” he realizes on an exhale, “You were bleeding. Was that…?”

                He trails off. He doesn’t even want to say it.

                He feels Dean’s forehead crease in a little bit of confusion for a moment, and then smooth out again in understanding. He huffs a little watery laugh, humorless and small and broken-sounding. “I thought you were a hallucination,” he admits, voice cracking again as he sniffs, “That was really you?”

                Castiel’s face falls, and he swallows past a fresh wave of tears that threatens to spill, tightening his hold a little. “Oh Dean…” he says, and Dean doesn’t reply, just pulling in a shaking breath and sniffing again, tucking his face closer into Castiel’s chest.

                Castiel thinks back to the days following Thanksgiving break. The way Dean acted, it all makes sense now. He got in all those fights that one day, and then came after Castiel in the woods, beat him bloody and left him there overnight with that whitetail deer. Castiel realizes now…that was never _personal_. Dean was a mess. He’d been attacked. He was dealing with the onslaught of traumatic emotions the only way he knew how – by throwing punches.

                It all makes perfect sense now. And Castiel wishes it didn’t. He wishes this wasn’t true. He wishes it was something different.

                Alastair is the reason for everything bad that’s happened since Castiel moved to Rail Pass. Or most of the bad that’s happened. Alastair has _always_ been the reason. Alastair is the problem. It was never Dean, and it was never anything Castiel did. It was all Alastair.

                They lay there for a while in silence, and Castiel just continues to stroke Dean’s hair as Dean gradually calms back down again. He was in such a good mood earlier, Castiel feels terrible for ruining it. But at least it’s over now. At least Dean’s secret is finally out there. And while Castiel probably isn’t going to stop worrying, at least now he has some context. He knows what to worry _about_. He’s not just grasping at straws, trying to build this jigsaw puzzle in his head anymore.

                It must be a half an hour later when Castiel finally moves again. He doesn’t really think about what he’s doing, he just does it. He pulls away from Dean just enough to be able to reach his arm, and as Castiel wraps his hand gently around Dean’s wrist and pulls his arm with the Ace bandage up a little for better access, Dean’s forehead creases and he half-heartedly attempts to pull away.

                “What are you doing?” he asks, his voice rubbed raw, face still streaked with drying tear tracks.

                Castiel doesn’t say anything, just swallows and unhooks the little metal clips off of the Ace bandage. Dean pulls in a sharp breath and jerks his arm out of Castiel’s grasp. “Cas, what the hell?”

                Castiel shakes his head. “Dean, it’s okay…I know,” he says, pausing for a moment to let that sink in and then reaching out and gently taking Dean’s arm again. Dean looks massively confused, but he’s confused enough at least that he doesn’t try to pull away again as Castiel slowly unwinds the bandage from around Dean’s arm.

                His burns are exposed to the soft amber light of the room.

                Dean swallows hard, his hand shaking again as his burns are unveiled, and once they’re visible, he suddenly reacts, pulling his arm away and trying to hide it as if that’ll keep Cas from looking at them.

                “I just had an accident with one of the fryers at Benny’s place,” Dean lies swiftly, tucking his injured arm against his chest and keeping his eyes down.

                “Dean…” Castiel says, but Dean doesn’t look at him. Castiel sighs and reaches out, placing his hand on the side of Dean’s face instead of on his arm again, stroking his wet cheek with his thumb. “Dean, it’s okay. I’ve already seen them. I know,” he says, and that makes Dean’s eyes snap up.

                “What?” he asks, his confusion melting to panic in his eyes. Castiel shakes his head again – he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s supposed to be reassuring.

                “I’ve seen them,” he replies, “I know what they are. It’s okay.”

                Dean stares at him wide-eyed for a moment, and he looks like he doesn’t know what to say. Castiel gives him a few seconds to process, and then reaches down and takes his mutilated arm again. This time Dean doesn’t resist as Castiel gently pulls his arm away from his chest by the wrist. He turns it so the cigarette burns are angled up, perfectly visible.

                There are some new ones since the last time Castiel saw these that night Dean tripped on shrooms and accidentally found his way into Castiel’s bedroom. Castiel feels a little nauseous when he sees a ring of burns in the shape of a heart that look fairly fresh, no more than a week old. He wonders if there’s any correlation between these new burns, and Castiel being attacked a week ago.

                Dean swallows with a click, and when Castiel raises his eyes from Dean’s burned arm to his face, Dean is looking at him, a little bit of every emotion imaginable in his eyes: fear, sadness, confusion, hurt, even some anger.

                “You knew?” Dean asks, sniffing again, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

                Castiel looks at him for a few moments, his forehead creasing in helplessness again, because all he wants to do is wipe Dean’s slate clean. Take these traumas and all this pain away and replace it with comfort and happiness. He’s too late though.

                “I didn’t know how to bring it up,” he replies, “There’s never really a good time to ask about something like this.”

                Impossibly, Dean’s cheeks flush a little with what looks like shame. Castiel would have thought Dean would be too emotionally drained right now after his breakdown to blush, but he’s been proven wrong. Dean looks down at his burnt arm again, and after a few seconds of staring at it, he huffs a little breath of disgust and tucks his arm against his chest again, hiding the burns.

                “How long have you known?” he asks, hesitating before looking back up at Castiel’s face.

                Cas chews on his lip for a moment, their faces only a few inches apart where they’re still laying on the bed. “Since the night you broke in,” he replies, “I saw them by accident. I think you were too intoxicated to remember.”

                Dean’s eyes wander for a moment as he lets that sink in, and while he’s thinking about it, Castiel hesitantly reaches out again, taking Dean’s unresisting arm once more and pulling it away from his chest. Dean watches wide-eyed as Castiel places a few gentle kisses to the inside of Dean’s forearm, right over the burns, all in various stages of healing. They’re angry and red and they look so painful, and now Castiel knows _why_ they’re there.

                This, too, is Alastair’s fault. This is what happens when you take someone and break them as brutally as Alastair has broken Dean. This is what happens when you violate someone the way Dean’s been violated. People don’t just come out of that completely intact.

                Dean’s probably blaming himself. And that’s _wrong_. So _wrong_.

                “Dean…can you promise me something?” Castiel asks, his voice quiet.

                Dean sniffs again, still recovering from his breakdown. “What?” he asks.

                Castiel grits his teeth for a moment, looking back down at Dean’s mutilated arm. He stares at the burns for a second, and then wraps his hand around them gently, like a makeshift bandage. “Please don’t do this to yourself anymore,” he whispers, cradling Dean’s arm like it’s a fragile vase, “Please.”

                Dean stares at him for a long moment, and his eyes well up with tears again. Only one of them falls, running sideways over the bridge of Dean’s nose and dripping onto the bedding. “I can’t promise that Cas,” he says honestly, and Castiel considers that for a moment before nodding, forcing himself not to beg.

                “I know. I understand,” he says, and pauses before adding, “At least…try? If you can’t promise that you’ll stop, at least promise me that you’ll _try_ to stop?”

                Dean is quiet for a minute or two, blinking away the tears in his eyes. He looks down at where Castiel’s hand is wrapped around his arm, grinding his teeth, forehead creased in stress. Eventually, he whispers, “I’ll try,” and leaves it at that.

                Castiel nods. That’s all he can ask for. After what Dean’s been through, Cas doesn’t blame him for doing what he’s done to himself, hurting himself the way he has. Castiel’s not sure how he would cope with a trauma like the one Dean’s been through, but he can’t be entirely sure that he wouldn’t take to self-harming either.

                They lay there in silence for another long while, and Castiel just watches Dean’s face. Dean doesn’t move, just keeps his eyes locked on where Castiel’s hand is wrapped around his burned arm. It must be at least fifteen minutes later by the time Dean speaks again, and it’s in a small voice that Castiel barely recognizes, hardly more than a whisper.

                “You don’t think they’re ugly?” Dean asks, and Castiel stares at him for a moment, his eyebrows pressing together.

                When Dean looks back up at him finally, Castiel makes sure he meets Dean’s eyes before he says, “They’re beautiful. Everything about you is beautiful Dean. I don’t ever want you to forget that.”

                Dean stares into Cas’s eyes for a long moment, and eventually swallows, blinking a few times and pulling in a heavy sigh that’s still a little shaky. He’s quiet for another minute, and then says, “Can we go to sleep now?”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, and to his elation, Dean’s lips curve into a tiny smile in return. “Of course Dean,” he replies, and Dean hums a little, sniffing once more and closing his eyes. Castiel slips out of the bed briefly to turn off the light, and when he climbs back in, Dean tucks himself against Cas’s chest, burying his face in the warm skin there and letting loose another shaky sigh.

                Castiel holds onto him tightly, dragging his fingers through Dean’s hair again, and after a few minutes, he grits his teeth. “I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again,” he says, and his voice comes out sounding a little like a growl as he feels carefully-controlled anger blooming once more in his chest, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

                He hears Dean swallow, and then Dean shakes his head a little, scooting even closer to Castiel and not saying anything in reply. It takes a while before Dean falls asleep, but when his breathing finally evens out, Castiel is relieved. Dean deserves to get some rest, and it’s comforting feeling the hot brushes of his exhales against Castiel’s chest.

                Cas doesn’t sleep that night. Not a bit. He barely even closes his eyes. He just lays awake and watches over Dean. Now that he knows the truth, he feels so utterly devastated inside. Somehow he thought that knowing the truth would make him feel better, make him feel like he could help, but he was wrong. He feels more helpless than ever now, but he still does what he can in this moment to reassure himself that maybe Dean will be okay, in time.

                He watches over him, and he prays. For now that’s all he can do. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

 

*       *       *

 

                When Dean wakes up in the morning, it’s to an empty bed.

                For a brief couple of minutes, it’s bliss. He’s in Castiel’s bed – he knows because he can smell Cas on the pillows he’s laying on. It’s warm, and perfect, and the sun is shining through the window and filling the room with a warm light that can only belong to the dawn. Dean feels nothing but a hazy, sleepy contentment.

                And then he remembers last night.

                His eyes shoot open, and all at once, he panics. He remembers telling Cas about the incident at Ghost Town last night. He remembers crying in Cas’s arms. He remembers feeling completely raw and split open.

                Dean pulls in a sharp breath.

                Where’s Cas? Holy fuck, Cas knows about his burns. Holy fuck, Cas knows about what happened at Ghost Town.

                Holy fuck _,_ where _is_ he?

                Dean shoots up in the bed, looking around the room uselessly as panic seizes in his chest. _Fuck_ , he knew it was a bad idea to tell Castiel the truth, the tell Cas what happened to him in November. Castiel probably thinks he’s disgusting now, soiled, dirty, ruined, a freak.

                And now Cas is gone.

                He left.

                Dean lurches out of the bed, because _no no no_ , Cas can’t be gone. Dean _needs_ him. Waking up in an empty bed after a night of horrible confessions is just about the worst case scenario Dean can think of.

                He nearly loses his footing as he stands up, his legs shaky and unsteady like they’re weighed down by the absolute _flood_ of emotions Dean unleashed last night. He’s really starting to regret that now. He glances down briefly and notices he doesn’t have the Ace bandage on his arm anymore. He remembers Castiel taking it off, kissing his cigarette burns, calling them beautiful.

                And now Cas is _gone_.

                _Fuck_.

                Dean slips quickly out of the bedroom, running down the hall to the bathroom just to see if Castiel is in there. He’s not, and Dean gulps like a child as he turns and heads back towards the stairs. He doesn’t have enough time to _really_ have a full-on panic attack, though, because when he gets to the top of the stairs, he hears dishes clinking from below. From the kitchen.

                Cas is in the kitchen.

                Probably cooking Dean breakfast.

                Dean clutches at the railing of the stairs and sucks in a deep breath, hunching over a bit in an attempt to calm his rapidly pounding heart.

                Castiel didn’t leave. He’s just downstairs cooking something.

                He’s still here.

                _Wow_ , that was just about the most unnecessary semi-panic attack Dean’s ever had in his life. He holds onto the railing for a few minutes just forcing himself to breathe, carefully keeping his eyes away from the very exposed and very visible cigarette burns all over his arm. He feels naked without that Ace bandage hiding them away.

                He considers to himself that maybe last night was all a dream, that in reality, Cas doesn’t know about what happened at Ghost Town, and doesn’t know about Dean’s mutilated forearm. But then he touches his fingertips gently to his cheek, and feels the tear tracks crusted there, and he knows. He knows it all really happened.

                He really wouldn’t blame Cas if Castiel decided to end things after this morning. He really wouldn’t blame Cas for not wanting anything to do with Dean after learning the truth. Nobody wants to be with someone who’s so fucked up and broken.

                Dean takes a shaky breath and forces himself to loosen his death grip on the railing, taking the stairs slowly and descending onto the first floor. He hesitates at the bottom of the stairs for a second, and then takes another bracing breath and walks into the kitchen. Castiel is pouring two glasses of orange juice at the table, and there’s sausages and eggs and bacon sizzling on the stove that Dean probably should have smelled already, had he been in a better state of mind.

                Castiel looks up when Dean walks into the room and a gentle smile graces his lips. It’s a smile that Dean doesn’t feel like he really deserves, but hell if it doesn’t feel good to see it. He smiles back, swallowing hard and standing awkwardly in the doorway for a moment until Castiel gestures to a chair at the table.

                “Sit. Breakfast is almost ready,” he says, wandering back to the stove. Dean side-eyes him for a second, waiting for the other ball to drop. Waiting for Castiel to give him the _I like you and all, but…_ speech. When nothing happens apart from Castiel dishing out a couple plates of food, Dean licks his lips and shuffles over to the table, both of them still wearing nothing but sweatpants. Castiel’s bare torso looks so smooth and trim in the rising morning sun from the window, and it pains Dean to think that he might not get to touch that ever again.

                Castiel carries two plates over to the table, setting one in front of Dean and then sitting down at his own chair, which is scooted a little closer than necessary to Dean’s. They eat in relative silence, and Dean keeps glancing over at him, waiting. Any minute now.

                But instead of breaking up with him like Dean thinks Castiel is going to do, Cas just looks over at him and smiles. It’s one of those endearing little smiles that doesn’t even reach Cas’s lips. It’s all in his eyes, just pooling with naked affection. For once, Dean doesn’t shy away from all that fondness and awe in Cas’s eyes, because this morning, he needs it. He really needs it.

                Seeing that look in Cas’s eyes, even after revealing his deepest secrets to Castiel last night, settles something within Dean. Castiel isn’t about to break up with him. Nothing’s changed. They’re okay. Dean’s okay.

                Dean swallows a bite of scrambled eggs as Castiel reaches over, wrapping his hand around Dean’s. Dean looks down at their hands weaved together on the tabletop for a moment. Castiel is holding the hand on Dean’s burned arm. He doesn’t even seem to notice, or care.

                When Dean looks back up at Castiel, Cas gives him another small smile, and nods his head towards Dean’s mostly-finished plate of food. “Eat,” he says, “We’ll be late for school.”

                And that’s it. That’s all it takes for Dean to know that everything’s going to be okay.

                He’s alright. _They’re_ alright.

 

                                   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out another awesome gifset made by camwelgrace on Tumblr for chapter 24 :) 
> 
>  [Gifset for Chapter 24](http://camwelgrace.tumblr.com/post/122575662156/hautleys-bend-broken-boy-made-another-gifset)


	33. Family Affairs

_The dream begins as it always does. Castiel knows this isn’t his life, that these aren’t his eyes he’s seeing through, but it doesn’t seem to matter. That cold, dead, loneliness still eats away inside him. He’s been alone for so long. All around him are the blank faces of people he once knew, and she’s dead, and nothing really matters anymore._

_He’s in that old car again, the one that smells like dust and decay and factory smoke, driving down this long stretch of road. There’s no one here with him. Everyone he knows, everyone he ever knew, is behind him, slowly disappearing into the rearview._

_He feels cold. The coldness starts in the tips of his toes and fingers, like frostbite. It spreads through his veins and tendons and fills his entire body slowly, like a ship sinking. When it finally fills his heart, Castiel barely feels the cold anymore, he’s gone so numb. And maybe that’s a good thing, this numbness. Maybe it means that he won’t have to feel that horrible loneliness anymore._

_When he wakes up from the dream in the middle of the night, Castiel doesn’t scream, or jolt. He just…opens his eyes. The cold doesn’t disappear for a while, and he lays there frozen on his bed just staring at the ceiling. If he had the presence of mind to be afraid, he would be, but for now, all he feels is nothing._

*       *       *

Despite the fact that Ghost Town is in a clearing, it always feels colder here than in the rest of the forest. There’s something about the way the dead vines wrap around the rusted edges of the old train cars, the way the wind never really quite reaches all the nooks and crannies, the way the paint peels off the metal in little dirty slivers, that gives Castiel that cold feeling at the back of his neck like he’s about to be murdered.

                Sure, it might have something to do with the fact that one of the most terrifying experiences in his life took place here, but mostly it’s just a feeling.

                Castiel doesn’t know what he’s doing back here.

                It’s been a couple days since Cas learned what happened between Dean and Alastair, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

                He’s angry. He has every right to be angry, but this level of anger disturbs him a bit, because he’s never been a particularly emotional person on any level. He feels things, generally, with a dull sense of clarity that allows him time to process his emotions and tuck them away where they can’t be found. But he’s so _angry_ about what Alastair has done. Not just about assaulting Dean – although that’s most of it – but also about Alastair’s continued relentless persistence. Like he has the _right_ to mess with Dean and Castiel the way he has, after _everything_ he’s done to fuck their lives up already.

                The fact that Alastair clearly has no remorse or even understanding of the harm he’s caused tells Castiel that Alastair is either completely mentally unstable, or he’s just not human at all.

                Dean and Cas have had only one more _very_ brief conversation about what happened with Alastair. Although Dean didn’t say much, Castiel found out that the assault took place at Ghost Town, and that the floor of that godforsaken train car is still stained with Dean’s blood. He also found out that Alastair tried to attack Dean again that night at Bela Talbot’s most recent party in Johnson. It makes sense now why Dean was so upset when they left that night.

                 After their brief conversation about it, Dean shut down once again, and they haven’t talked about it since.

                And now Castiel is here. Ghost Town. He didn’t even mean to come here. His feet just decided to carry him in this direction today after school instead of towards his house where he _should_ be on a Wednesday afternoon, waiting for Dean to finish up his session with Cara, and hanging out with Anna, and Jesse, and Missouri. Not _here_. Not in this abandoned clearing full of forgotten train cars.

                Standing here alone, Castiel now understands why Dean and his friends call this place Ghost Town. It’s like a wasteland. There aren’t even any birds singing. Just the barking of a dog somewhere far off in the forest that Castiel thinks might belong to the man in the backwoods with the barn, Mr. Devereaux.

                Castiel stands at the edge of the trees for a while, unsure whether he should just turn back and go home, or continue forward to that train car where everything happened. Where Dean’s name is carved into the wall, and dusty beer bottles litter the floor.

                He’s surprised he remembered how to get back here. Cas has only been here twice, and both times, he ended up here not of his own volition. The first time, he only discovered Ghost Town by accident the night he lost his virginity to Dean in the hayloft and then Mr. Devereaux chased he and Dean with the shotgun. The second time, he was dragged there by Alastair and his redneck friends.

                For the past couple of days, to Cas’s surprise, he hasn’t been able to stop himself from doing some digging on his own, trying to find Alastair. Castiel isn’t sure what he plans to do if he _does_ somehow find Alastair before the police do, but he’s still been searching. He feels like he has to do _something_ , after finding out the things Al did to Dean, even if the assault was months ago. Cas broke into Alastair’s locker to search through his forgotten homework assignments and unreturned text books, but found nothing. He even went to Alastair’s crappy little house in town, and found it empty, newspapers piled up on the front porch untouched. Castiel doesn’t even know if Alastair lives with anybody else. He’s twenty-one after all, he probably has his own place, even if he’s still held back in high school.

                But it doesn’t matter. Alastair is nowhere to be found. He’s just gone. Skipped town.

                Maybe the reason Castiel is here at Ghost Town now, is because somewhere deep down he thought _maybe_ Alastair would be here, hiding. It’s a stupid thought, but Castiel has no other explanation for why he would possibly come back here, other than to satisfy his own morbid curiosities.

                He takes a deep breath of the cold March air, and finally forces his legs to move, carrying him forward towards the train car where everything happened. He still half expects to find Alastair’s grinning, serpent face in the shadows of the train car when he steps up beside it, but the car is empty, save for the old rotting lumber and trash.

                With a hard swallow, Castiel hoists himself up into the train car, his steps sounding hollow and heavy as he walks inside. There are no signs that Alastair has been here, at least that Castiel can see. It looks the same as the other times Cas has been here, although he’s never been here during the day. The train car is a lot dirtier looking in the cold sunlight, and the names carved into the wall are more prominent.

                Castiel can’t help it. He looks down at the floor. Looks for the stain on the wood. Dean told him that his blood is still staining the floor, but it still hits Castiel like a punch in the gut when he spots the large, dark smear on the wood. He’s seen the stain before, the first time he was at Ghost Town, but he really didn’t think much of it, didn’t know what it was. To anyone who doesn’t know what the stain actually is, it just looks like another smudge in the disarray of the train car.

                But Castiel knows now. He stands over the stain for a while, scuffing away dead leaves and dust from on top of it to really get a look at it. He doesn’t know _why_ he’s looking at it. Maybe because he’s in denial that this terrible thing actually happened to Dean. Whatever reason, looking at the stain only fuels the fire in his gut. He feels his heart rate pick up a bit, and his hands clench into fists, and he grinds his teeth as he stares at the old blood on the floor. It’s dark brown, and dry, and inconspicuous, but it’s there. And it _infuriates_ Castiel.

                God, what he wouldn’t give to go one round with Alastair. Just to see who would win. Castiel is strong, and although he’s not much of a fighter, he’s angry enough right now that he’d make an exception for Alastair, in the blink of an eye. As much as this bloodthirsty anger is unfamiliar to Castiel, he finds it guiding his actions, taking over his thoughts and just screaming for revenge.

                Grinding his teeth so hard they squeak, he tears his eyes away from the blood stain on the floor and looks around the train car. His eyes fall upon Alastair’s name carved into the wall, and he stares at it for a moment, his hands shaking a little because he just wants to tear this monster apart.

                Instead, he does the next best thing. The _only_ thing, really, that he can do right now to satisfy his thirst for blood.

                Castiel stoops down and picks up one of the beer bottles discarded on the floor, smashing it against the piles of lumber to break it into a few large, sharp chunks. He selects one of the sharper pieces of glass and kneels down next to the wall, using the edge of the glass to gouge Alastair’s name off of the wood. It’s not as easy as Castiel thought it would be, but he pours all of his anger and need for revenge into this simple task, scraping Alastair’s name off of the wall as quickly as he can, one letter at a time, finding a certain amount of satisfaction in watching his name slowly disappear under jagged scratches from the glass. Like Alastair is disappearing forever too. That’s really what Castiel wants, for Alastair just to be gone. Forever.

                He gets so caught up in his anger, so caught up in the task of scratching Alastair’s name off the wall of the train car, that he doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching the car from behind him. He startles when he hears a voice say, “Well, this is something I never thought I’d see.”

                Castiel accidentally cuts his finger a little bit on the glass as he jumps, looking back to see Crowley standing on the ground outside the train car with his hands tucked in the pockets of his pea coat, head cocked a little as he stares at Castiel.

                Somehow, even though Crowley has been a frequent bully of Castiel’s, Cas isn’t scared. He’s too _angry_ to be scared of Crowley right now. He stares hard at the Brit for a few moments, and Crowley’s eyebrows raise a little in surprise when he sees the blind anger on Castiel’s face. No doubt it’s an unusual expression for Castiel to wear.

                Before Crowley can say anything else, and before Castiel even knows what he’s _doing_ , he’s shoved himself to his feet and turned to face Crowley. “He’s your _best friend_ ,” Castiel snaps, sounding just as angry and accusatory as he feels, “How could you not even know?”

                Crowley’s forehead creases in confusion, and he raises one eyebrow. “Care to be more specific?”

                Castiel grinds his teeth and glares at Crowley, shaking his head. Seriously, how could Crowley not _know_? How could he not know what Alastair did to Dean, when both Dean and Al are people he spends most of his time with? “What kind of a friend are you?” Castiel growls, seething.

                “Excuse me?”

                Cas knows he’s taking his anger towards Alastair out on Crowley a little bit, but at the same time, he’s also pissed at Crowley. Cas is pissed because he wasn’t there to help Dean back in November, but Crowley _was_. So why _didn’t_ he?

                Castiel shakes his head again in disgust, throwing the piece of glass in his hand aside. “How can you even look Alastair in the face after what he’s done?” he demands, taking a step forward.

                Crowley just blinks at him and doesn’t answer, confusion blatant on his face.

                Castiel scoffs at him, his face heating with rage. “Dean’s your best friend, and you didn’t even bother to ask him what was _wrong_?”

                Crowley shakes his head a little, still looking utterly confused. “Novak, I haven’t the slightest what you’re talking about,” he snaps, sounding a little angry under his confusion.

                Castiel takes another step forward and jabs his finger towards the dark stain of Dean’s blood on the floor. His voice is bordering on a shout this time as he barks, “Your best friend gets raped, and you can’t even take a precious moment to _notice?”_

Crowley’s eyes flicker to the stain on the floor and then back up to Castiel’s face, where Cas is breathing hard and vibrating with anger.

                Castiel only stares at Crowley’s surprised and confused face for another couple of seconds, and then can’t stand the sight of him anymore. Grinding his teeth, Cas walks forward and jumps down from the edge of the train car, heading back towards the woods and away from the stifling cold of Ghost Town. Crowley says nothing as Castiel shoves past, doesn’t try to stop him.

                Cas disappears into the woods, leaving Crowley standing there blinking and silent.

                He needs to calm down. Castiel has always had pretty good control over his emotions, but he’s never cared this much about another person before, besides Anna. And caring for Anna is different than the way Cas cares for Dean. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Castiel knows that he just accidentally told Crowley Dean’s secret, however unclear it came out, but right now, he doesn’t care much past a little bit of guilt swimming beneath all his anger. He’s too mad to care right now. Maybe, if Crowley is smart enough to figure out what Castiel just said, the knowledge will keep him up at night. Castiel _wants_ Crowley to feel guilty. The same way Cas feels guilty.

                He slows to a stop once he’s deeper into the woods and has put enough distance between himself and Ghost Town. He’s breathing hard, and he tries to control it a little better, tries to make the fine tendrils of anger he feels constricting his throat slowly unravel and dissolve. He’s good at this, controlling his emotions. He just needs to focus.

                It takes a few minutes before he finally feels his heart rate start to slow, and his breathing evens out. It helps that the sounds of the woods are louder here. He can hear bugs chittering, and the loose, guttural wail of crows. The trees creak in the mild March chill, and Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, leaning against one and calming himself down.

                It’s unhealthy to be this angry. And it doesn’t help anyone, especially Dean.

                After a couple minutes, Castiel lets his eyes fall open again with a sigh. There’s a stinging pain on his hand and he looks down to find blood beading out of a small cut on the tip of his finger from the shard of glass. He stares at the blood for a moment, and then sucks his finger into his mouth to clean it off, examining the tiny wound. He thinks to himself that the cut is a pretty accurate representation of how his heart feels right now. Wounded, bleeding, painful.

                Swallowing hard, he tries to shake his thoughts of revenge aside and focus more on how he can make things better. Lowering his hand, he pushes away from the tree he’s leaning on and heads back through the woods towards his house to wait for Dean to finish with his session with Cara.  

 

*       *       *

 

                The next night, Charlie comes over for a little while. Everyone else is busy studying, including Dean, so Charlie and Cas decide to hang out together, just the two of them. They watch bad movies, as usual, and order pizza, and Charlie teaches Castiel how to make a _cootie catcher_ , which Castiel has never heard of.

                “How do you not know what a cootie catcher is when you make so much origami?” she laughs, telling him his fortune. Apparently, according to a little pyramid of paper, Castiel is going to end up rich, and he’s going to die by being beaten to death with a burlap sack of Magic The Gathering cards.

                Castiel remains confused by the game even after they’ve played it.

                They’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, facing each other with the pizza box between them, the credits for their most recent movie rolling up the TV screen. It’s somewhat late, so Anna is already in bed upstairs.

                Castiel is feeling better – or at least, more in control of his anger – since yesterday. He keeps reminding himself that the police will get Alastair, that even if he isn’t charged with sexual assault on Dean, he’ll still be charged with beating up Castiel. Cas just needs to focus on what’s really important: helping Dean recover. It’s been months since Dean was attacked, but Cas can tell that Dean has a long way to go before he’s completely right in the head again after an experience like that.

                All in due time. Castiel just needs to focus on the things he _can_ change, rather than focusing on pointless revenge.

                “Dorothy is taking me to the dance in a few weeks,” Charlie pipes up as she reaches for another slice of pizza, and Castiel cocks his head to the side.

                “I forgot there was going to be a dance,” he replies, pursing his lips, “I usually just ignore the banners hanging around the school.”

                Charlie chuckles. “That because most of the banners are for the football team, and literally nobody cares about the football team.”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, picking apart his pizza crust and pulling out the doughy center. “Are you and Dorothy going to dress up as a devil and angel again?” he asks.

                Charlie snorts. “No,” she replies, “I think the theme is the _deep blue sea_ , or something super cliché like that.”

                Castiel cocks his head to the side again. “I’m unfamiliar with school dances,” he replies, “Are they usually ocean themed?”

                Charlie grins. “You’re like an alien,” she says, “It’s great.”

                Castiel blushes, smiling a little as he looks down at the crust in his hands. “I’m a bit uninformed, yes.”

                Charlie chuckles. “Last year’s senior dance was a masquerade ball, but Pamela said there’re some budget problems, so they’re sticking with something easier this year.”

                Cas nods a little in understanding. “Does that mean we all have to dress like mermaids?”

                Charlie narrows her eyes, studying Castiel. “That might not be a bad look on you actually,” she snorts, “But no, I think just formal wear is good enough. Oh, and every year, some of the jocks spike the punch bowl and end up losing their football scholarships.”

                Castiel snorts. “That seems like a stupid reason to throw away your future.”

                “I know,” Charlie nods, “And it’s a different group of them, every year. They just never learn. Us smart people smuggle booze through the doors in our bras.”

                A small laugh is startled out of Castiel. “I’m not sure how helpful that will be for me,” he points out, and Charlie eyes him.

                “You could always bring a flask in the crotch of your underwear,” she suggests, “They’d probably just think you have a huge package.”

                Castiel laughs, dropping his pizza crust and brushing crumbs off his hands. “You’re so innovative.”

                Charlie gives a little bow. “I try my best.”

                Cas chuckles and pushes himself up from the couch, walking over to turn off the movie now that the screen’s flashed back to the DVD menu. “I’m not sure I’ll be going to the dance anyway,” he shrugs.

                Charlie’s forehead creases. “Dean’s not taking you?” she asks, and Castiel huffs a small laugh.

                “Knowing Dean, he’d hate having to go to any school related function, dances included,” he replies, smiling fondly to himself imagining how Dean would grumble and complain and pull at the collar of a too-tight dress shirt the whole night.

                When he turns around, snapping the DVD case closed and sliding it back into place on the shelf, Charlie is giving him an odd smile, her eyes sparkling a little. Castiel cocks his head to the side. “What?” he asks, and Charlie just shakes her head with a little huff of breath.

                “You’re in love with him,” she states, taking in the fond look on Castiel’s face.

                Cas’s forehead creases in confusion, and he shakes his head a little. “I’m not-”

                “You are,” Charlie interrupts, her voice leaving no room for argument or question. Like she just _knows_.

                Castiel blinks at her for a second, and he feels his cheeks heat up in mild embarrassment. But when he thinks about it…He’s never been in love before, so he doesn’t really know how to define it. Could he really be in love with Dean after so little time?       

                He chews his lip for a moment, feeling a little flutter in his stomach. “Is…is that bad?” he asks quietly, shuffling back over and sinking down onto the couch again. Charlie grins like Castiel just admitted a huge secret, and she reaches over, patting his knee.

                “No,” she replies softly.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel has noticed something about Dean.

                He’s noticed that Dean is a lot more, for lack of a better term, _clingy_ at school now since the night of his confession. Whenever they’re walking together down the hall, Dean will grab Castiel’s hand. When they sit at lunch, Dean sits shoulder to shoulder with Castiel and often rests his hand on Cas’s thigh under the table. In math class, Dean hooks his foot around Castiel’s ankle under their desks.

                Like a child. Like a lost little kid.

                It twists Castiel’s heart into all sorts of little knots that he can’t shake out, because he knows Dean is trying to remind himself that Cas still wants to be with him, even after learning what Alastair did. As if Dean is to blame for the things that have been done to him.

                Castiel doesn’t want Dean to think that he’s giving up on him, so when Dean holds his hand too tight or sits too close, Castiel just holds his hand back, and enjoys the press of Dean’s shoulder against his. And at night, when Dean sleeps over at Cas’s house, they’re wrapped so tightly around each other it’s like they’re one person, just a mess of tangled limbs and mingled exhales under the blankets.

                Castiel is not going anywhere.

                It’s the middle of the school day on Friday, the last day before Spring break starts, when Castiel is sitting at lunch in the cafeteria with Dorothy, Charlie, Gabe, and Dean. Dean is sitting as close to Castiel as he possibly can, as has become the norm this week, although nobody has commented on it, for which Castiel is grateful. Dean’s hand is tightly wrapped around Castiel’s in his lap, and Dean absently plays with his fingers while they eat. He’s sitting so close to Castiel today that Gabe decided to sit on Dean’s other side with the new space, instead of across the table like he usually does.

                They’re all busy having a conversation about plans for Spring break next week. Gabriel is the only one going out of town with his family, to see the new apartment that his older brother Michael just bought in California. Charlie and Dorothy are going on a camping trip a couple miles into the backwoods of Rail Pass, despite the fact that it’s still pretty cold to camp, being the middle of March. They grumble and complain about the fact that the high school’s Spring break isn’t even during the _Spring_ , but everyone’s secretly excited.

                Castiel already had a conversation with Missouri about letting Anna stay at her house for the whole break. He didn’t even have to specify with her that it was because Dean is basically going to be _living_ at his house for the whole week off of school. Missouri just accepted without question. She loves having Anna at her house anyway.

                According to Dean, the Singers are going out of town for the break to New York to explore colleges for Jo, and they’re taking Sam with them just for fun. They offered to have Dean go too, but Dean declined, because he wanted to stay in Rail Pass with Castiel. When Dean told Castiel that, Cas blushed and kissed him, and promised to make it worth his while.

                Since Bobby will be leaving town tonight for New York, and won’t be back until next Sunday, Cas has the whole week off of work, which he’s happy about. He basically plans on spending every moment of this Spring break naked, in bed, with Dean. Anna will be looked after, Dean won’t have to worry about Sam. It’ll just be a week for the two of them. It sounds like heaven, and Castiel is actually really excited. This is the most excited he’s ever been for Spring break. Most Spring breaks in his past have been spent alone, getting ahead in his studies, or teaching himself things. The change is welcome.

                Castiel is pulled from his thoughts as Gabriel throws a jelly bean at Charlie’s face when she insults him. She laughs and flings a celery stick at him in return, and then they’re arguing about some new TV show that Castiel has never seen. Cas doesn’t really pay attention, just eats his rubbery cafeteria food and glances over at Dean. Dean is laughing and dodging food being thrown at Gabe right next to him, and arguing his own point about a certain plotline in the TV show.

                Cas just watches him for a couple minutes, watches the tiny little crinkles at the corner of Dean’s eyes when he laughs, crinkles that Cas knows will turn into beautiful webs as Dean gets older. He watches the way Dean’s tongue darts out to lick his lips occasionally when he’s not talking, the way Dean’s cheek bulges obscenely when he takes too big of a bite of food (which is always).

                Castiel only snaps out of his daze of watching Dean when Dean’s face suddenly smoothes out, and he perks up a little. When Castiel follows his line of sight, he spots Crowley making his way slowly towards their table from across the room, his hands tucked into the pockets of his pea coat, and an uncharacteristic look of reluctance on his face.

                Gabe, Charlie, and Dorothy fall quiet when Crowley reaches the table, stepping up to the other side and looking at Dean. Castiel feels a little bit of panic bloom in his chest, and he _really_ hopes Crowley doesn’t say anything about what Castiel inadvertently revealed to him at Ghost Town two days ago.

                Dean’s forehead creases a little. “Hey man, you wanna join us?” he greets, his green eyes glancing towards the window where Gordon and Zach are already outside smoking at The Docks, where Crowley usually would be.

                Crowley glances at Charlie and Dorothy next to him, and Dorothy scoots over a little, making room for him to sit. He seems to hesitate, swallowing a bit, and then his eyes flicker over to Castiel’s. Cas gives him a warning look, and shakes his head so subtly that no one else will notice. Crowley doesn’t say anything, just lowers himself down onto the seat at the table, holding Castiel’s gaze for a long moment before his eyes snap back over to Dean’s.

                “You okay dude?” Dean asks, studying him, and Crowley pulls his hands out of his pockets, resting them on the table, making himself more comfortable. He nods after a moment.

                “It’s a bit chilly out today,” he replies, “Mind if I stay?”

                Dean snorts, while Charlie smiles and leans forward to look at Crowley. “Welcome to our side of the cafeteria,” she greets, giving him a friendly grin. Crowley doesn’t smile back, but his eyes soften a little, and he settles in.

                As if this isn’t extremely unusual, to have Crowley here, the conversation just picks up where it left off, with Charlie and Gabe arguing about that program on TV, and flinging food at each other with Dean caught in the crossfire. Castiel eats his lunch slowly, absently running his thumb over Dean’s knuckles in his lap, sneaking little glances at Crowley.

                Crowley keeps looking at Dean with an odd expression on his face, like he’s trying to see the change. It’s because of that expression that Castiel _knows_ Crowley understood what Cas said to him at Ghost Town on Wednesday. Crowley looks suspicious, but also guilty underneath his usual cockiness. That guilt would have been satisfying to see a couple days ago when Castiel was so angry, but now he feels bad for making Crowley feel that way. Cas was only projecting his own guilt onto Crowley then.

                The truth is, _neither_ of them were there to protect Dean from Alastair back in November. It’s no one’s fault but Alastair’s.

                When Crowley glances at Cas, Castiel tries to give him a small nod, maybe as a way to express a certain amount of forgiveness, or reassurance. Whatever he’s trying to say, Crowley seems to relax a little, and when Dean shoots him a weird look for acting so uncharacteristically, Crowley loosens up enough to start making smart ass remarks like usual.

                Dean throws back his head and laughs at some jibe that Crowley makes towards Gabriel, and then laughs harder at the flawless comeback that Gabe shoots back, and Crowley’s face lightens up just a bit, like he’s happy to see Dean so happy. Like he was expecting, now that he knows about what happened with Alastair, that Dean would be some broken little shell.

                Dean is strong. He’s not going to break that easy. Now Castiel and Crowley both know that.

 

*       *       *

 

                Missouri takes Castiel, Jesse, and Anna (who insists on coming) to the doctor briefly that afternoon to have the stitches on his head removed. Castiel gets a chance to have a talk with Tessa, who is disappointed to hear that the people responsible for hurting Cas like this still haven’t been found by the police. Castiel thanks her for everything she’s done for him, and she tells him to take care of himself and “that nice boy who brought him in the other night”, meaning Dean. Castiel smiles. Dean will get a kick out of that.

                When they get back to Missouri’s house around five, Castiel’s stomach drops a little when he looks up and spots Bartholomew’s car is the driveway of his own house. Anna immediately perks up in the backseat and starts shouting “Daddy!” over and over again as she wrestles out of her seatbelt and jumps out of Missouri’s Station Wagon before it’s even shut off.

                Castiel shoots Missouri an apologetic look and thanks her sincerely, giving her an awkward sideways hug in the confines of the car and saying goodbye to Jesse before climbing out and trudging across the dead lawn towards his front door, which is still hanging open. He can hear Anna inside laughing and squealing like this is the best day of her life, and Bartholomew’s more reserved, deeper voice under it all.

                When Castiel steps into the front door, closing it behind himself, his father is at the end of the hall, talking on the phone with somebody while Anna hangs off his legs, giggling excitedly. Castiel snorts a little when he sees that, and waits patiently while Bart finishes up his call after a couple of minutes.                

                The second their father hangs up the phone, Anna starts chattering, squealing happily and climbing up Bartholomew’s suit-clad body like a monkey, settling with her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his stomach, squeezing him tight. Bart chuckles a little and pats her on the back in greeting, before nodding to Castiel over Anna’s shoulder.

                “Dad,” Castiel says by way of greeting, before pausing and then adding, “What are you doing here?”

                Bartholomew snorts, pulling Anna off of himself and setting her down on the floor again. “Well last I checked, I live here,” he replies, smoothing out his suit jacket and jerking his head towards the kitchen. Castiel wants to say _no you don’t, not really_ , but instead he just remains quiet and follows his father and Anna into the kitchen. While Anna bounces around, still ecstatic to see their father, Castiel remains in the wide doorway, just standing there awkwardly.

                Bartholomew opens the fridge, searching for a snack or something to have after being on the road.

                “When did you arrive?” Castiel asks politely, leaning against the doorjamb with one shoulder.

                “Only about ten minutes ago,” Bart replies, voice distant as he bends down to peer onto the lower shelves of the fridge. He seems disappointed when he doesn’t really find anything but Missouri’s casseroles, and then plucks one randomly from the middle, closing the fridge and pulling the plastic wrap off the dish, setting it on the island counter to serve himself some. “I’m only here for the night,” he adds after a few moments, checking a few cupboards before he finds the one where the plates are, “I’ll be leaving in the morning. I need you and Anna to start packing.”

                Anna stops jumping around for a minute, and Castiel blinks, straightening up a little from where he’s leaning on the doorjamb. “What?” he asks, hoping he heard that wrong.

                Bartholomew glances up at him briefly, licking a little bit of sauce off his thumb as he dishes some casserole out for himself. “Your mother and I have finalized our divorce,” he explains, “I’ll be taking you kids while she’s still in Central America. Tomorrow I’ll start making the necessary arrangements to sell this house, and then we’re moving to a more permanent residence in South Dakota.”

                Castiel stands there blinking for a moment, not really registering his father’s words. When it finally hits him what Bart is saying, he feels a lump form in his throat so fast it’s like he’s choking on a rock. Anna has gone completely silent and stiff, and for a minute she just stands there dumbstruck.

                _No_. _No, no, no_! With everything that’s been happening lately in Castiel’s life, with Dean, and Alastair, and midterms, and friends, he completely forgot that this was an almost inevitable possibility. He completely forgot that any day now, Bartholomew, or Naomi, or both of them, would return to Rail Pass and pick up their lives, and move away. Just like the last twenty-seven places Castiel has lived. Just like every single _non_ -home that Castiel has ever had. That _Anna_ has ever had.

                _No_! They can’t leave! Not after everything that’s happened.

                Castiel is surprised when Anna very suddenly bursts into tears where she’s standing frozen in the middle of the kitchen. Bartholomew looks up from where he’s busy covering up the casserole dish with plastic wrap again, not even having noticed how silent his children became the second he mentioned that they were moving again. Castiel starts to step forward to comfort his sister, but she turns and pushes past him, sobbing as she runs up the stairs and down the hall. Her bedroom door slams, and then a few moments later, loud music starts playing. Anna’s way of coping.

                Castiel looks at the stairs for a moment where Anna just disappeared, and then turns his eyes back onto Bartholomew, feeling panic and anger clawing up the back of his throat.

                Bart looks genuinely stumped, and he nods his head towards the ceiling. “What’s wrong with your sister?” he asks, confused. And that’s it. That’s all Castiel needs to really send him over the edge. All at once, he’s furious.

                “What’s wr-” he begins, and then cuts himself off, pulling in a sharp breath, “You! _You’re_ what’s wrong with her!”

                Bartholomew looks taken aback by Castiel’s tone, straightening up, his eyebrows arching in surprised anger. “Castiel, don’t you dare raise your voice with me,” he warns. But Castiel has _had_ it.

                “ _No_!” he shouts, all but cutting his father off as he takes a step forward, “No. We’re not going.”

                Bartholomew has the audacity to bark a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Castiel, we’ve been through this many times now,” he says, his tone oozing condescension, “Yes you are going. There's a great high school where we’re moving, and a lot of better job opportunities for myself.”

                Castiel sets his jaw. “You’re not listening,” he growls, taking another step forward and glaring at his father, “We’re. Not. Going.”

                Bart flattens his hands on the countertop, leaning forward a little, fixing Castiel with the same cold, blue-eyed glare. Castiel learned this look from his father, after all. “You don’t have a choice.”

                Cas blinks, helplessness and panic beginning to tighten in his chest. Technically he’s eighteen, and he can do whatever he wants now. He’s an adult. But he still has a couple months left of high school, and there’s no way he could afford to live on his own. And even if he outright refused to move with his family _again_ , what about Anna? She’d still have to go, and she’d be all alone in South Dakota.

                Desperation fuels Castiel to blurt, “I have friends here!”

                Bart shrugs as he turns and pops his dish of casserole in the microwave. “You’ll make new ones.”

                Cas huffs, exasperated. “No. No I won’t,” he insists, “That’s what you don’t understand.”

                Bartholomew rolls his eyes as he turns around. “Castiel, stop being so dramatic,” he chastises, walking around the counter and towards the doorway of the kitchen, “Start packing. We leave in one week, with or without your belongings.”

                Before Castiel even registers that he’s doing it, his anger and desperation make him step in his father’s path, blocking Bart from leaving the kitchen. Bartholomew looks taken aback at Cas’s sudden daring. Castiel has never been a particularly assertive person, especially with his father.

                “No,” Cas says firmly, “Not this time. We’re not leaving, I don’t care what you do.”

                Bart blinks at him for a moment, surprise and anger warring on his face. “What’s gotten into you?” he demands after a moment.

                Castiel huffs a humorless laugh, bordering on exasperated. “I’m _happy_ here dad!” he shouts, “Don’t you care about that?”

                “Lower your voice,” his father interrupts, but Castiel just ignores him and continues.

                “I have _friends_ here!” he yells, “I’ve _never_ had friends in my life! Are you so blind that you don’t see that?”

                Anger flashes in Bartholomew’s eyes, but he doesn’t respond. He just folds his arms across his chest and lifts his chin, looking down his nose at Castiel while Cas pauses to catch his breath. When he realizes Bart isn’t going to say anything, his frustration ramps up a notch.

                “We’ve lived everywhere,” he points out, lowering his voice just a little so Bartholomew will see past his self-proclaimed superiority and actually listen, “We’ve lived so many places, that I never even knew the definition of _home_ until I came here. For the past seven months…Anna and I have built lives for ourselves here, while you’ve been busy not paying attention. I mean don’t you understand that?”

                Bart’s jaw flexes a bit. “What are you implying?” he asks stiffly.

                Castiel resists the urge to take a swing, or break something in his frustration. “I’m saying _open your eyes_! I’m saying that you can’t keep doing this to us! I’m saying be a _father_!”

                The microwave alarm dings behind him as Bartholomew huffs a breath. “Excuse me?”

                “Do your job!” Castiel shouts, getting worked up again, “Be our father! Stop uprooting our lives like we’re nothing more than house pets!”

                Bart has the gall to look offended. “Are you saying I haven’t been good to you and your sister?” he asks.

                Castiel takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. He’s never going to get through to his father if he’s shouting. Bart is too far up on his high horse to respond with anything but anger to a raised voice.

                Castiel grinds his teeth and then continues in a calmer voice. “I’m saying that…I’m saying that the last time we had a good family dinner was for my eighth birthday,” he replies, already starting to feel drained from fighting, “I’m saying that you and mom talk to strangers in your jobs more than you talk to your own children…I mean, did you know that Anna doesn’t even know when your birthday is? In what kind of functional family does a child not know her own father’s birthday?”

                Bartholomew scoffs. “Don’t be silly Castiel, of course she knows my birthday.”

                Castiel waves towards the stairway with an exasperated flick of his arm, another burst of anger flowing through him. “Why don’t you go ask her? We’ll see,” he suggests, stepping forward and getting in his father’s personal space, gesturing to the bruises still on his own neck and cheekbones from Alastair’s attack a couple weeks ago, “And while you’re at it, aren’t you going to ask what happened to my face dad? Aren’t you going to ask how we’re doing in school? What we’ve been doing with our lives? Or are you just going to barge in here and ruin _everything_ for us, once again, like you have so many times before?”

                Castiel is shouting again by the time he trails off, breathing hard and glaring at his father. There’s fury and confusion and, to Castiel’s rage, a little bit of condescending amusement in Bartholomew’s eyes. “I don’t understand where this attitude is coming from,” Bart states, giving his son a warning glare.

                Castiel wants to hit him. He actually _really_ wants to hit him. But all that will do is serve to make his father angrier than he already is, and they’ll still have to move away from Rail Pass.

                So instead of continuing to shout, Castiel settles on pleading instead, softening his voice just a bit.

                “Dad…we’re _happy_ here,” he says, swallowing hard past the lump in his throat that’s threatening to make him start crying even though he doesn’t think he’s ever really cried in front of his father, “Do you even care? This is our _home_ now. Please… _please,_ don’t take that away from us.”

                Bartholomew is quiet for a moment, studying Castiel’s face. It must be just as surprising to his father to see him this agitated, as it is for Castiel to _be_ this agitated. He’s never felt things so thoroughly, never expressed emotion so openly, as he does now that he’s been living in Rail Pass for all these months. The change, to his father, must seem like something that happened overnight since Bart is never here. But really, Cas has been changing this whole time, for months now.

                “Why do you want to stay so badly?” his father finally asks, after a couple moments of contemplative silence.

                Castiel blinks at him, feeling a small headache forming in his temple. “I already told you.”

                “No,” Bart says, “You’re different. You’ve changed since I saw you last. What’s so different about Rail Pass?”

                Castiel swallows again, considering the consequences of telling his father that he’s in love. Ever since Charlie pointed it out yesterday, Castiel has been thinking about it. If it’s not true, if he’s really not in love with Dean, maybe somehow he’ll figure that out. But for now, he chooses to believe that it’s true. He chooses to believe that he loves Dean, as thoroughly as someone like Castiel _can_ love somebody. Maybe it’s changing him. But knowing Bartholomew, if Castiel tried to use that as an excuse to stay here, to not move to South Dakota, Bart would laugh in his face and roll his eyes and tell him he doesn’t understand what love is, and that it’s not a good enough reason to stay somewhere.

                But still, some tiny part of Castiel is hoping that maybe Bartholomew _will_ understand. Will somehow see that Castiel is serious when he says he loves somebody, and that it’s real, and that he doesn’t want to leave. Dean, of course, isn’t the _only_ reason why Castiel wants to stay here, but he’s a huge part of it.

                So Cas swallows back his reservations, and looks his father in the eyes, and barely hesitates before he says, “I love someone.”

                And of course, just as predicted, Bartholomew pauses before letting out an amused laugh. “Oh, well now it all makes sense.”

                Castiel barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, settling on grinding his teeth instead. “No, dad, it’s not just because of him. It’s _everyone_. _Everything_ about this town.”

                Bart’s laughter cuts off abruptly, and his eyes snap back to Castiel’s face, jaw stiffening. Castiel doesn’t know why Bartholomew’s demeanor changes so suddenly until, after a few long moments, through semi-gritted teeth, Bart repeats, “ _Him_?”

                _Fuck_. Castiel isn’t around his parents often enough to have remembered that Bartholomew and Naomi are some of the most traditional and conservative people he’s ever met. Castiel hid the fact that he was gay for years because of this very reason, and now he’s just gone and blurted it out loud.

                He swallows, his hands balling into fists. “His name is Dean,” he says, because if he just accidentally came out to his father, he’s not about to hold back at all. He probably won’t get a chance to have this conversation again after tonight, what with his father disowning him and all.

                Bart’s nostrils flare, and his lips press into a thin line like he’s smelling something disgusting. “He’s a boy?” he asks stiffly, and Castiel sighs. This is just about how he imagined this conversation would go.

                “Yes,” he replies flatly, “I love him dad.” It doesn’t matter how many times Castiel says that he loves him, though. Bartholomew will never get past the _him_ part.

                His father scoffs, throwing his hands in the air like an exaggerated shrug. “Well, that’s just _great_ ,” he snaps, “My own son, in love with a boy.”

                Castiel narrows his eyes at his father. “What’s so wrong with that?” he asks, because he actually genuinely wants to hear his father’s answer.

                Bart’s eyes practically bug out of his head, and there’s a red flush in his cheeks like he’s suddenly furious. “What’s _wrong_ with that?” he repeats with a disbelieving laugh, “It’s an _abomination_ , Castiel! It’s a sin! Your mother and I raised you better than this!”

                Castiel’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling, and his initial panic at inadvertently coming out to his father is overshadowed by mild hysteria. “You didn’t raise me at all!” he points out in a shout.

                “So you decide to be a homosexual to, what, get _back_ at us? Is that it?” Bartholomew yells, a vein throbbing in his temple as his carefully controlled anger starts coming apart at the seams.

                Castiel shakes his head and scoffs. “I’ve known my sexuality for years, dad,” he replies, “If you were here more often than three times a year, you would know about it too.”

                Bart lets out another bark of disbelieving laughter, wiping at his forehead. “This is blasphemy,” he utters, more to himself than Castiel, like he’s trying to work it out in his head that he has a gay son, despite all the church they went to when Cas was younger.

                “No, it’s not,” Castiel points out, “It’s me being comfortable with who I am. I only wish you could see that.”

                Bartholomew’s jaw stiffens, and his lips press into a thin line. He straightens back up and looks down the bridge of his nose at Castiel again, only this time, there isn’t just coldness in his eyes, but also disappointment. The perfect, cardboard cutout image of a disappointed father. He’s silent for a moment, just staring down at his son.

                The silence lasts so long, that Castiel almost breaks it. But his father beats him to the punch.

                “We’re leaving,” Bart says, voice flat and cold, “One week.”

                With that, he takes a step forward, trying to leave the kitchen again, even though his food is still in the microwave. Castiel panics again, because _no_. No, he’s not moving away. He _can’t_.

                He steps in his father’s path once more, and before Bartholomew can start yelling again, Castiel blurts out, “You know I never thought I’d live to be eighteen?”

                He has no idea where that comes from, but it’s somewhere deep down in the forgotten corner of his mind where he has secrets that he hasn’t even told _himself_ yet.

                Bartholomew narrows his eyes at him. “What?”

                Well, Castiel already started spilling his random, depressing secrets; he may as well keep going.

                He licks his lips, grinding his teeth for a moment and clenching his hands into fists. “Everywhere we’ve ever lived, I’ve been tormented,” he says, half-pleading, and half-accusatory, “Even here. But what’s different about Rail Pass is, I have people here who care about me too. Who look after me. I…I have someone who I _love_ , dad. I have a family, even if not by blood. Are you really willing to take all that away from me? From _Anna_? And for what, a _fresh start_? When what we really need is some stability? Are you really so eager to make us suffer?”

                Bartholomew has gone quiet again, his arms straight at his sides, his own hands balled into fists, still looking down his nose at Castiel, chin jutting out like a statue. He says nothing, so Castiel just keeps going.

                “Don’t,” Cas begs, “Don’t take this away from us…I don’t care if you think I’m an abomination. At the very least, don’t do this to Anna. Let us stay. Please.”

                Silence. Bart doesn’t say a word. Castiel has run out of things to say, so he just stands there, most of the anger drained out of his body and replaced by helplessness and begging. He can feel his nose tingling like his body wants to cry, but he’s not going to cry. Even if they really do move away in a week. Castiel thinks maybe his mind will shut it off, the emotions. Like it always does when they move, or whenever something bad happens. His mind usually finds a way to just…shut down.

                Bartholomew stares at Castiel for almost a full minute, the silence in the kitchen almost too _loud_ , after all the shouting. Then, without another word, Bart steps around Castiel, and Cas stands there and listens to him disappear down the hallway, closing his first floor bedroom door and leaving Castiel alone.

                Cas exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, swallowing past the now-painful lump in his throat, and he leans back against the kitchen doorjamb, closing his eyes, letting his head thump back against the wood.

                He doesn’t care what it takes. He’s not going to South Dakota. No matter what his father says.

 

*       *       *

 

                It’s one of those afternoons again.

                Dean slams his bedroom door, right in John Winchester’s red, shouting face. He manages to lock it before his dad can start jiggling the knob, and then Dean coughs and immediately heads for the window. His nose is bleeding, and his cheekbone is starting to swell up with a fresh bruise that Dean can tell is going to be a dark one, but he’s not exactly a rookie when it comes to getting punched in the face, so he ignores the pain and climbs out his bedroom window.

                Sam already has his own window open when Dean untangles himself from the weed-filled garden outside, and just like every time this happens, Dean scoops Sammy up under his armpits and lifts him out of his room. Before they can head off down the street, Sam says, “Wait! I need my suitcase.”

                Dean rolls his eyes, letting go of Sam’s arm and hoisting himself up through Sammy’s window, falling gracelessly inside and grabbing his duffel bag off his bed, tossing it out the window before climbing back out himself. The suitcase is the whole reason they’re in this mess right now anyway, no point in leaving it behind now.

                John’s angry shouts fade into the distance as Dean slings Sam’s duffel over his shoulder and they head down the street together. Their father accidentally found out this afternoon that Sam is spending his Spring break in New York without his dad’s permission. And while, technically, John is Sam’s legal guardian and could very easily put a stop to all this, he’s too stupid drunk to realize that, and instead resorted to shouting and throwing punches.

                Thankfully Dean got caught on the wrong end of John’s angry fists tonight instead of Sammy.

                Sam deserves this vacation.

                And honestly, Dean really _needs_ one.

                He wipes blood away from his nose with the back of his hand, giving up after a moment because he knows his face is a mess, even though John only managed to get a couple punches in before Dean got away and shut his father out of his room. Dean is just waiting for the day his door gets broken down.

                Sam pulls out a little travel square of tissues from the side pocket of his duffel and hands one up to Dean to help his bloody nose. Dean ruffles his hair in thanks, holding the wadded Kleenex to his bleeding nostril and slowly stopping the flow of blood.

                They make it to the Singer’s house before his nose even stops bleeding, but by now it’s only trickling a little, so Dean tosses the tissue in the bathroom trash can and then kneels to hug Sammy goodbye. Ellen, Jo, and Bobby are busy packing the car in the garage to drive out to the airport for their flight to New York tonight, but when Ellen comes back inside and sees the state of Dean’s face, fed-up anger flashes in her eyes and she reaches for the phone.

                Dean panics and steps over, plucking the phone out of her hand and hanging it up before she can finish dialing, because he _knows_ she was going to call the police. She’s wanted to report their father before, always wants to when Dean and Sam show up at their house bruised and bloody from another fight with John. But as Dean sees it, Sammy is better off with a deadbeat dad as opposed to ending up in foster care, which would be the likely outcome since Dean isn’t financially fit to support anyone. So he shakes his head a little, telling Ellen to let it go, and she clenches her jaw and hesitates before giving Dean a tight hug, telling him to take care of himself and call her if he needs anything.

                Dean kisses her on the cheek in response, and then hugs Jo and Bobby goodbye too before stooping down to give Sammy one more hug on his way out. He tells Sam to have a good time and to be careful, and Sam rolls his eyes and tells him he’ll be fine. Dean snorts and messes up his hair, and says he knows.

                And with that, Dean leaves to head over to Castiel’s. He’s never been one for huge goodbyes, and Sam is going to be home next Sunday anyway. No point in shedding a tear over it. He knows Sam will have a blast, even if they’re just exploring colleges. The little geek will probably insist on sitting in on a couple college classes, if they’re in session this week.

                Dean sniffs, wiping his nose again as he pulls out a cigarette, smoking on the way to Castiel’s house, probably looking a little ridiculous with dried blood on his face and a blooming bruise on his cheekbone. But he doesn’t care. He’s so beyond caring at this point.

                It’s a little after five by the time Dean makes it to Cas’s, and his forehead creases in confusion when he sees an unfamiliar car parked in Castiel’s driveway. Maybe it’s one of his friend’s cars, he ponders, and heads across the dead front lawn to the porch.

                When he steps up to the front door, though, he hears shouting coming from inside. He stops, with his hand poised and ready to knock, and he tilts his head to the side a little to listen. He can’t make out any words being said through the wood of the front door, but he recognizes Castiel’s voice, and then the voice of an older man shouting back.

                Dean looks back at the car. Maybe Castiel’s father is here? Dean has never seen Cas’s dad, nor has he really heard about him, but it’s not like his dad _never_ comes to visit, right?

                Although, from the sound of it, Cas isn’t enjoying the visit all that much.

                Hell, maybe Dean and Castiel _both_ need a vacation.

                Dean stands there on the front porch for a minute, pondering whether he should go to Hautley’s Bend or Missouri’s or something, just to give their family affairs some privacy. But Dean doesn’t really want to go anywhere else – he kind of just wants to see Cas.

                So he steps off the front porch and wanders around to the side of the house to the tree outside Cas’s bedroom window. Castiel told him that Dean came in through his bedroom window the night Dean had the bad trip on shrooms. Although Dean doesn’t remember, he assumes he climbed the tree. And if he can do it high, he can certainly do it sober.

                He hoists himself up branch by branch, grimacing when his pinkie lands in some sap and the pine needles jab at him like angry fingers. By the time he climbs high enough to be level with Castiel’s window, he’s huffing and blinking little bits of crumbled bark out of his eyes. Castiel’s window isn’t locked, thank god, and Dean tumbles inside with an undignified grunt, knocking over the origami penis that he made for Castiel months ago in the process.

                When he rights himself, he can still hear the shouting coming from downstairs, although he still can’t tell what’s being argued about because there’s loud music coming from Anna’s room next door to Cas’s, drowning out the words. Dean kicks off his dirty shoes, considering sneaking out to the bathroom to clean up his face a little, but he doesn’t want to be discovered when he basically just broke into Cas’s house…again.

                So he climbs onto Cas’s bed, being careful not to get blood from his nose on the sheets, and leans back against the mountain of pillows, staring at the crane mobile above the bed and waiting. The argument downstairs doesn’t last very long, and fluctuates from quiet talking to angry shouting a few times before Dean thinks it’s finally over. There’s the sound of a door closing downstairs, and then silence for a few minutes until he hears footsteps ascending the stairs.

                Dean prepares himself, gets ready to bolt incase it’s someone else besides Castiel who comes through that closed bedroom door. But, when the door opens, it’s just Cas standing there, looking weary and a little uncharacteristically emotional. When he looks up and spots Dean, his first instinct is to smile like he’s overjoyed to see Dean, and then Cas glances towards the stairs and slips into the room, shutting and locking his door, confusion crinkling his features.

                “Dean? What are you doing here?” he asks, keeping his voice low despite the fact that Anna’s music next door will probably drown out the sound of their voices.

                Dean smiles, pushing himself up from the bed. “We had plans, remember?” he asks, and Castiel’s gaze drifts to the side of a moment as he tries to recall. Dean huffs a small laugh.

                “It’s okay. Stressful night,” he says, when Castiel doesn’t look like he’s going to remember their very brief conversation about hanging out tonight. He comes forward and wraps his arms around Cas, not kissing him yet because Dean’s still got dried blood on his face. “Everything okay?” he asks, when Castiel sighs and buries his face in the side of Dean’s neck.

                “My father is here,” Cas tells him, and Dean sort of figured that one out on his own.

                “What were you two fighting about?” Dean asks, as Castiel pulls away again and gets a good look at his face. It’s still light outside in the late afternoon.

                Cas looks torn for a moment, and then just shakes his head a little. “He has plans to move us away to South Dakota by the end of the week,” he says, anger evident in his voice.

                Dean pulls back a little. “What?” he demands in shock, because he never even considered the possibility that Cas could one day leave again. Now that he thinks about it, though, it makes sense. Cas has lived so many places, Dean has no idea why he thought he’d be staying in Rail Pass for good.

                Castiel shushes him, shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he says, “I’m not going. I don’t care what he does.”

                Dean’s forehead creases as he tries not to let himself panic. He has no idea what he’d do if Castiel were gone. “What about Anna?”

                Cas is quiet for a moment, chewing on his lip, and then shakes his head a little. “We’ll figure something out,” he replies, and it sounds like a promise. It eases Dean’s nerves just a bit, but he can’t help the nagging worry in the back of his mind. He’s not sure how he’ll survive if Castiel isn’t here to see all the time. Dean can’t imagine a day in his life without Castiel somehow being a part of it.

                They’re silent for a moment, and Castiel cocks his head to the side, studying Dean. “What happened to your face?” he asks, reaching up and ghosting his fingers gently over the fresh bruise on his cheekbone. Dean winces a little – the skin there is still tender.

                “Funny story actually-” he begins, but Castiel rolls his eyes and cuts him off with a gentle kiss, like he knew Dean was about to make up some bullshit story about slaying a dinosaur or fighting a wolf or something.

                When Cas pulls away, Dean grins, earning him another eye roll, and then Castiel takes his hand. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, pulling Dean out into the hallway and checking to make sure his father is still downstairs before heading to the bathroom. Cleaning the blood off Dean’s face doesn’t take that long, and then Dean slips back into the safety of Castiel’s bedroom while Cas sneaks downstairs for a moment to grab them some food to eat.

                They spend the rest of the evening eating and talking quietly, successfully building another origami mobile for Bobby’s shop in the process. This one has little origami squid on it, and Dean crinkles his nose and says it’s kind of disgusting, but Cas informs him that it was a special order from a client at the aquarium store in town who wants to hang it above the front door of her shop.

                They hear Castiel’s father moving around downstairs at one point, but then he goes back to his bedroom, closing the door, and doesn’t come out again. Later in the night, Anna’s blaring music next door finally turns off, and when Dean glances at the clock, it’s almost nine. Anna is probably going to sleep.

                When Dean turns back and looks at Castiel, Cas is fiddling with one of the little origami squid in his hands, and he looks a little weary, kind of how Dean feels. Dean thinks about Sammy, probably on that plane to New York somewhere in the sky right now, and he shivers at the thought of being so high off the ground.

                Dean thinks about the week they have ahead of them. A whole week just to themselves, without school. He’s been itching to get out of Rail Pass for so long, and he considers to himself in this moment, why he _hasn’t_ yet. Why don’t he and Cas have any plans to go anywhere this break? Charlie and Dorothy are camping, Gabe is going to California, Kevin’s doing whatever Kevin does in his free time, Sammy’s in New York. Why aren’t Dean and Cas doing anything?

                Cas looks up after a few minutes of silence, and finds Dean staring at him contemplatively. Castiel cocks his head to the side. “What?” he asks, and Dean smiles a little, chewing on his lip.

                “You wanna get outta here?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, suddenly a little excited because it’s been years since he was on a vacation.

                Cas’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “Now?” he asks, and Dean snorts.

                “In the morning,” he says, grinning, “Let’s go somewhere.”

                Cas glances back down at the squid in his hands and then sets it aside, pondering to himself. “Where would we go?”

                Dean purses his lips and shrugs. “I dunno,” he replies, “We can just…go somewhere. Hitch a ride from some crusty old driver at the truck stop outside of town, and go wherever he’s going.”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh. “Are you serious?”

                Dean shrugs. “Yeah! I mean, we have a whole week. Let’s just go somewhere. Get out of Vermont for a while.”

                Cas licks his lips, thinking about it for a moment, and Dean lets him. Whereas Dean is prone to spontaneity, he doesn’t know whether Castiel is wired the same way. He gives Cas some time to think it through.

                When he finally looks up at Dean again, there’s a smile in his eyes. He gives him a small nod. “Okay.”

                Dean perks up. “Yeah? You’ll come with me?”

                Cas huffs a small laugh, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Dean’s. “Yes,” he replies, “We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”

                Dean’s face explodes into a wide grin, and he jumps forward, tackling Cas back into the bed and kissing him enthusiastically. He already has the feeling that this Spring break is going to be the best week of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made another little Dean aesthetic thing for this story if anyone wants to check it out haha, it was mostly made out of boredom and a desperate need to practice my less-than-ideal photo editing skills, but I think it turned out okay :P hahaha
> 
> [Aesthetic](http://coldinthestudio.tumblr.com/post/122888502022/dean-aesthetic-made-for-my-fanfiction-hautleys)


	34. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive, I'm here, sorry! I know it's been a couple weeks :/ I started my new job last week (got the job I wanted with the district attorney's office, woohoo!) and it requires me to wake up really early every morning, so my sleeping schedules have been *gasp* NORMAL for a change (the time I usually get the most writing done is in the middle of the night), so my peace and quiet and well-rested writing mind have been a bit absent for a while. I apologize <3 But I'm back, and hopefully I'll have the next chapter up a little quicker this time around as I'm settling into the new schedule. Hope you like the chapter :) And sorry for typos I probably missed <3

In the morning when Castiel goes downstairs, he finds a note on the kitchen table from his father. Bart is already gone by the time he wakes up, for which Castiel is grateful. He really didn’t want to face his father so soon after blurting out that he was gay in front of him. While Castiel isn’t ashamed of his sexuality, it still doesn’t feel all that great to have your father look at you like you’ve sprouted horns and a forked tongue and you’re some sort of abomination running around with his last name.

                Cas’s hurt and anger, however, are overshadowed by overwhelming, _disbelieving_ relief when he picks up the note left by Bartholomew on the kitchen table and reads it. It states that, for the time being, Bart has decided they will keep the house in Rail Pass, and that they won’t be moving to South Dakota like originally planned. Castiel has to read it three times over before it really hits him what it says, and his face explodes in a smile.

                They’re not moving. _They’re not moving_! For once in his life, they’re actually staying in one place! At least for now. He runs back upstairs to show the note to Dean, and Dean whoops triumphantly and throws his arms around Castiel, kissing him enthusiastically.

                “I knew everything would be fine,” he says, and Castiel rolls his eyes, shoving his shoulder.

                “Oh please, you were more worried about the move than I was,” he points out, and Dean snorts.

                “Whatever, you sap,” he replies, “You would’ve missed me and you know it.”

                Cas huffs a small laugh and reads the note one more time, afraid that the words might suddenly rearrange themselves and mean something else. But they’re the same, and he breathes a sigh of relief, slipping out of his room briefly to go wake Anna up down the hall to show her the good news. Castiel likes to think that maybe the reason Bartholomew changed his mind was because of some of the things that Castiel said to him last night, but he’ll never know if that’s true. Either way, he can’t stop smiling.

                Anna is ecstatic to hear the news, and she wants to go over to Missouri’s house to tell her and Jesse what happened, so Castiel hands her shoes to her and tells her to grab some clothes, since Anna will be staying at Missouri’s for all of spring break. She doesn’t have to pack all that much, since she’s just going next door, but she still grabs a few outfits and some movies for her and Jesse to watch.

                Dean gives Cas a brief kiss goodbye as they all walk out the front door together, and they promise to meet back up at Hautley’s Bend in about an hour so they can walk to the truck stop outside of town to hitch a ride for their impromptu spring break vacation. Dean considered the idea of taking the Impala and just road tripping wherever they want for the week, but Castiel talked him out of it, stating that his father would be angry. He eyed the bruises on Dean’s face as he said it, knowing damn well how they got there, and Dean had blushed and looked away, nodding in agreement.

                As Dean heads off down the street towards his house to pack up some belongings for their spur of the moment vacation, Castiel walks Anna over to Missouri’s house next door. Anna holds Castiel’s thumb for the entire fifty foot walk, mostly because she’s so excited that they get to stay in Rail Pass. When Missouri answers her front door, she welcomes them both inside with one warm hug each that feels so much more like home than Castiel’s father.

                Cas stays and visits for a while, accepting some breakfast that Missouri automatically serves him while she listens to Anna recount what happened last night with their father. Thankfully, Anna wasn’t downstairs for the whole conversation. Castiel hates arguing with his parents in front of her, and on top of that, Anna would never in a million years have let Castiel off the hook for the fact that he’s in love with Dean. The teasing would have been relentless, had she heard that. It’s best kept a secret.

                When Castiel hugs them all goodbye and heads back to his own house, it only takes him about five minutes to pack. He’s just bringing some clothes and toiletries, and of course the many bottles of lube and boxes of condoms. He checks his bank account just to make sure he has enough money to get by for this trip, _wherever_ it is that they’re going. They still haven’t decided. And if all else fails, and they end up somewhere expensive, Castiel always has access to the bank account that Bartholomew and Naomi have left he and Anna for food and other expenses when they’re alone.

                Castiel slings his bag over his shoulder and shuts off all the lights in the house before heading down the street towards Hautley’s Bend. Dean is already there when Castiel arrives, sitting on the creaky swing with his duffel bag at his feet, smoking a cigarette and looking positively gorgeous as always. He stands when Cas gets there, throwing his bag over his shoulder as well, and together the two of them head off hand in hand towards the truck stop on the other side of town. It’s right on the edge of Rail Pass, according to Dean, and although the town’s not very big, it still takes an hour or so to get there on foot. They stop for a few on-the-go snacks at the convenience store in town on the way, and Dean picks up another pack of cigarettes just in case he runs out.

                Castiel feels a little excited flutter in his stomach as they walk. This is the strangest, most exciting thing he’s ever done. He’s never just spontaneously decided to take a vacation. He’s never hitchhiked. He’s never had this much _fun_ before, and their vacation hasn’t even started yet.

                It’s midmorning by the time they get to the truck stop, and Castiel hangs back and lets Dean handle getting them a free ride with one of the many truckers here. Despite the fact that Castiel is generally a trusting person, he doesn’t like the look of some of these truckers, leering at him and Dean like they’re hookers instead of high school students. When Dean walks back over to him with a big, excited grin on his face, Castiel leans in, keeping his voice low as he asks, “Isn’t this how people get murdered?”

                Dean barks a laugh, and loops his arm around Cas’s shoulders, kissing him once on the cheek. “Scared? Don’t worry princess, I’ll protect you,” he replies, and Castiel rolls his eyes, shrugging his arm off with a laugh.

                “Ass,” he shoots back, and Dean chuckles, nodding his head in the direction of a big rig parked over near the edge of the lot.

                “Come on,” he says, pulling Castiel along, “I found a guy who says he’s headed up towards Maine. Maine doesn’t sound like a bad vacation spot, right?”

                Castiel smiles a little, following along as Dean leads him towards the truck. “It sounds perfect, Dean.” Cas lived in Maine before, but he’s too young to remember much about it.

                It turns out, the truck driver Dean convinced to give them a ride is a lanky, young guy named Garth, who smiles far too often, speaks with a dorky southern drawl, and smells like corn. He seems far too enthusiastic about his job, but harmless overall, so Castiel relaxes a little, climbing up into the large cab of the semi first, followed by Dean. As Garth circles around the front of the truck to climb into the driver’s side, Castiel spots a sock puppet lying limp on the dashboard, and nudges Dean, nodding towards it. Dean snickers, but doesn’t have time to make a snarky comment before Garth opens the driver’s door and climbs in.

                Garth is on a route that’s going to take him all the way to the Atlantic coast of Maine, and Dean and Castiel elect to just stick with him the whole way. There’s not much in between Rail Pass and wherever they’re headed anyway, so they settle in for a long ride. Dean admits that he’s prone to falling asleep on long car rides when he’s not the one driving, and true to his word, he dozes off with his face pressed against the window next to Castiel no more than a couple hours into the drive.

                Castiel has never been a particularly talkative person, but thankfully, Garth seems perfectly fine with doing all the talking. He tells Cas practically his whole life story during the entire nine hour truck drive across New Hampshire and southern Maine. The whole way, a Tom Petty CD plays on a loop, and Castiel listens quietly and contently to Garth speak, occasionally looking over at Dean and smoothing his hair back from his forehead or adjusting his seatbelt a bit so it doesn’t dig into Dean’s collarbone.

                Garth stops in New Hampshire to refuel briefly, and Castiel leaves Dean in the truck sleeping while he slips into another convenience store and purchases a couple of sandwiches and drinks. Dean will probably be hungry when he wakes up, and Castiel didn’t eat that much at Missouri’s this morning before they left. The snacks they bought for the road back in Rail Pass are mostly sugar and oil, so Cas figures they could use a little nutrition along the way.

                When they continue on their way, merging back onto the highway that will lead them straight to the coast, Castiel eats his sandwich slowly and looks out at the scenery while Garth continues to speak. Surprisingly, for the whole ride, Castiel never once gets any sort of explanation from Garth for why there’s a sock puppet on his dashboard, but he doesn’t bother to ask. Just smiles to himself and nods along to what Garth says.

                At one point, when they’ve been driving for almost seven hours and it’s getting to be late afternoon, Dean snorts awake briefly, blinks a few times, and then switches and lays his head on Castiel’s shoulder instead of against the window, falling back asleep instantly. Castiel looks down at Dean’s sleeping face pressed to his shoulder and he brushes his hair back from his forehead again, even though it’s not really necessary. He just wants to touch Dean, wants to convince himself, even after all this time, that Dean is actually real, and that they’re actually hitchhiking with a chatty trucker named Garth and headed to Maine for a vacation they didn’t plan.

                It all seems a little crazy and unreal if Cas takes into consideration what he was doing exactly one year ago – which is to say, he was sitting alone in his apartment in Chicago, friendless, listening to people chatter on the street below.

                The way things have changed so fast still baffles him.

                Garth chuckles a little as he glances over at where Castiel is now holding Dean’s hand in his lap, zoning out looking down at Dean’s face. Cas looks over questioningly when Garth laughs, and Garth nods towards Dean.

                “He’s a lucky guy to have you, the way you been looking at him the whole drive,” he remarks, and Castiel blushes a little, but can’t help the small smile that graces his lips.

                “Perhaps,” he replies, looking down at Dean’s hand in his and brushing his thumb over Dean’s scarred knuckles. Dean mumbles something in his sleep, and then stills once again.

                “Lemme ask you something,” Garth says, reaching out and turning down the music a little bit, “Y’all aren’t a couple a runaways, are you? Be honest with me.”

                Castiel looks back over at him, chuckling until he realizes Garth is serious. “No,” he promises, “It’s our spring break. We just decided to…go somewhere.”

                Garth cocks his head with a goofy smile. “You mean to tell me you guys didn’t know where you were headed when you came to that truck stop this morning?”

                Cas huffs a small breath and shakes his head. “We just knew we didn’t want to spend the week in Rail Pass.”

                Garth laughs, slapping his hand on his steering wheel. “Y’all are my kinda people!” he says, and it sounds like a compliment, so Castiel smiles and thanks him.

                He settles back into his seat, enjoying the feeling of Dean’s sleepy exhales against the side of his neck, the warmth of Dean pressed so close, as he listens to Garth tell him all about how he met his wife Bess, and that her side of the family, for the most part, is somewhat of a nightmare.

                The rest of the drive goes by fairly fast, and by the time Garth pulls the big rig off the highway and into another truck stop, it’s late afternoon, and the sky is heavy with swollen dark clouds that are leaking sporadically. Castiel’s ass is numb as Garth cuts the engine of the truck and grins over at him.

                “Well, this is it friend,” he says, gesturing around at the gloomy scenery beyond the windows, “The end of the road.”

                Castiel leans forward just a little, although not enough to jostle Dean’s head still on his shoulder, and peers out at the world beyond. It’s not as sunny as he thought it might be, but honestly, it’s beautiful. There are dark, thin trees, and the sky is a deep shade of gray-purple with the ominous rain clouds. Even inside the cab of the semi, Castiel can smell the ocean. They must be close.

                He leans back and looks down at Dean’s face, placing his hand gently on Dean’s cheek and stroking it with his thumb, shaking Dean gently. Dean jolts awake with another little snort that makes Castiel smile, and blinks blearily towards the windshield before smacking his lips and looking up at Cas.

                “We’re here,” Castiel supplies his questioning look, and Dean smacks his lips again and sits up with a groan, running a hand down his face.

                “Where’s here?” he asks after a few moments in a scratchy sleep-rough voice, looking out at the gloomy world beyond.

                “Hope, Maine,” Garth replies, as chipper as ever, taking his seatbelt off and opening his door, “It’s a tiny little coastal town with not much going for it, but there’re some pretty sights if you’re planning to stay.”

                He hops down out of the truck and closes the door, and Castiel turns back to look at Dean. “What do you think?” he asks, eyeing the dark bruise on Dean’s cheekbone sympathetically as Dean yawns and shrugs.

                “I haven’t been to the ocean in a while,” Dean replies, looking over at Cas and giving him a sleepy smile. That’s his way of saying this is perfect, and Cas is inclined to agree, even if the weather is dark and rainy. Dean hums and leans in, pressing his lips to Castiel’s for a long, slow kiss. Even though Dean and Cas kiss all the time, it still sends a thrill through Cas’s nerve endings, maybe because it’s been a while since they slept together last and his traitorous body is craving a physical touch.

                He can’t help but press into the kiss a little more than Dean originally planned, and Dean makes a little happy noise in the back of his throat, sliding a hand up along the side of Cas’s neck and weaving his fingers through his hair. Cas almost forgets that they’re sitting in the lot of a truck stop for a moment, too busy arching towards Dean like their bodies are meant to be molded together, resisting the urge to climb on top of him and take this the direction they both want it to go.

                Dean is eventually the first to pull away, forcing himself to break off the kiss because there are people walking by outside and anyone could look up and see them in here making out shamelessly. Cas is panting a little by the time they stop, and he tries desperately to ignore his semi-hard cock in his pants.

                “We…we should find a room,” Dean breathes, and Castiel nods.

                “I agree,” he replies, and Dean snorts, kissing him once more, making it just a quick peck, and then he opens the door, climbing out. Cas hands down both their duffel bags first before jumping down himself, and they walk over to the small building ahead briefly just to thank Garth and say goodbye. Garth tells them that if they want to hitch a ride back to Stowe, they should meet him here in a few days, and then he insists on giving both Dean and Castiel a big hug each, even though they’re practically strangers.

                Cas takes Dean’s hand, and together the two of them head in the direction of the ocean, which Garth says is a couple miles down the road. He tells them that there’s a little motel called the Soggy Rose right on the water near the pier, and Dean raises an eyebrow at the name, but doesn’t question it. The two of them head down the street, duffel bags slung over their shoulders, hand in hand, praying that it doesn’t start raining while they’re still caught outside.

                It only takes about a half an hour to find the Soggy Rose Motel, and since this isn’t exactly an ideal vacation spot, the motel receptionist, a nice woman named Haley, informs them that they’re the only guests staying here right now. They get their pick of the rooms, and they choose one on the end of the single-story building, closest to the pier a little ways down the beach.

                The ocean is flat and gray under the heavy clouds, only a few small waves lapping at the wet-sanded shore. There’s a thin layer of fog hanging in sheets from the sky, draped like massive ghosts over the entire small town of Hope. The eerie silhouettes of ships are visible far in the distance on the water, and the guttural bellow of foghorns cuts through the gloom in low reverberations. Castiel enjoys the dreary view while they head down the small sidewalk to their room at the end. The door itself is nicely painted with a deep red color, a silver number “8” plaque fastened to the center. Dean turns the key and pushes into the room, and Castiel takes one last glance at the ocean, sucks in one last salty breath of the humid air, and then steps into the motel room after Dean.

                He drops his bag on the floor, and the second Dean closes the door, Castiel is on him, backing him up against the wood (which is much less maintained on the inside) and crushing their lips together. Dean laughs like he knew that Castiel was going to do that, and willingly opens his mouth to Cas’s probing tongue.

                Cas wastes no time in sliding his cold hands up Dean’s shirt, warming his palms on Dean’s stomach, feeling the smooth bump of his scars. Dean huffs a small breath, his hands settling on Cas’s hips and pulling him in roughly like he’s about as ready to get this show on the road as Cas is. Castiel’s cock, which has been semi-hard ever since he and Dean kissed in the cab of the truck, presses up against Dean’s through their clothes, and he’s delighted to find that Dean is already starting to swell too.

                Cas rolls his hips forward experimentally, like a question, and Dean answers with a shallow thrust of his own, like permission, or a plea. He seems to be in one of those moods where he’s willing to let Castiel do whatever he wants. Cas can tell with the way Dean is melting back against the door, his legs falling open and his lips parting submissively with every smooth drag of Castiel’s tongue.

                Dean is the first one to reach for the zipper of Cas’s pants, before they even remove their shirts, or shoes. And all at once…Castiel freezes.

                What if…what if Dean doesn’t actually want this? Ever since Cas learned about what happened between Dean and Alastair, he’s been very careful about the way he touches Dean. It just doesn’t feel… _right_ , to touch Dean this way. It feels like a violation. Castiel knows that this is consensual, what they do. He wouldn’t be _doing_ it if he _didn’t_ have Dean’s consent. But it still feels like Cas is taking things too fast all of the sudden. It feels like Cas has been taking things too fast from the very beginning. Hell, the first time they had sex in that hayloft was less than two months after Dean was attacked. Who _knows_ whether Castiel is actually helping Dean move on, or _hurting_ him deep in his psyche by sleeping with him?

                Dean notices the way Castiel’s lips suddenly go rigid, and the way his hands stop moving over his torso, and he pulls away from the kiss for a second, panting and eyeing Castiel with concern.

                “You okay?” he breathes, his hips thrusting shallowly of their own accord still. Cas blinks his eyes open, suddenly feeling torn. They’re both turned on right now – that much is obvious by the hardening in the front of their pants – but Castiel suddenly feels horrible about touching Dean this way. Especially when Dean is still in such a vulnerable state even months after he was attacked.

                Cas stares at him for a moment, his face creasing with worry, feeling a little prickle of anger in the back of his throat, because _fuck_ Alastair for ruining so many things.

                “Do you…I mean, are you sure you want this?” he asks hesitantly, studying Dean’s face. Dean looks confused for a moment, and then a little bit of understanding flashes in his eyes, and all at once he looks a little embarrassed.

                He rolls his hips forward again, nudging his erection against Castiel’s. “Does it _feel_ like I have any objections?” he asks, chuckling a little, although there’s a tiny bit of discomfort tangled in the pitch of his laugh.

                Cas swallows, biting his lip. “I just mean-”

                “I know what you mean,” Dean interrupts, his voice gentle but firm. Cas presses his lips together, looking into Dean’s eyes, trying to find the lie, the discomfort, anything. But all he finds is trust as Dean lets out a small sigh.

                “I’m not some fragile little daisy, Cas,” he says quietly, his fingers gently squeezing and loosening on Castiel’s sides, “I’m not gonna break.”

                Cas exhales slowly, removing one hand from under Dean’s shirt and cupping his cheek instead. “I just want you to be okay,” he says, his voice practically a whisper. Another foghorn blares outside, cutting through the quiet of the room.

                Dean snorts, turning his head to the side and kissing Castiel’s palm. “Well, what I _need_ right now is for you to stop talking,” he says, tightening his hands on Cas’s hips again, “So shut up. And fuck me.” He punctuates his words with another roll of his hips, sharper this time, like he’s trying to goad Castiel on. It works to send a thrill of pleasure through Cas’s lower abdomen as Dean’s semi-hard cock thrusts roughly against his through their clothes, and his breath hitches, a tiny smile touching at the corners of his mouth.

                He stares at Dean for several long seconds, studying his face, looking for a fluctuation, a sign, _anything_ to tell him that Dean isn’t being honest. But he finds nothing apart from unwavering trust and unmistakable arousal in his eyes. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe Castiel is hesitating right now because he _himself_ is the one finding it hard to move on in the wake of such a horrible secret. Maybe Dean is ready. They’ve been sleeping together for months, after all.

                So Cas swallows, and forces himself to shake off his reservations, forces himself to trust that Dean will tell him if he wants to stop.

                He licks his lips, tasting Dean on them, and then his hand currently resting on the side of Dean’s face starts to slide down. He doesn’t stop until his hand is settled on Dean’s neck. At first he just rests it there, but the longer he looks into Dean’s eyes, the more confident he feels that Dean knows he’s safe. So he tightens his hold. Dean’s breath hitches a little as Castiel puts pressure on his throat, and the bobbing of Dean’s Adam’s apple against Cas’s palm as he swallows is the last little push Castiel needs.

                 With his hand still wrapped around Dean’s neck, he leans forward and crushes their lips together once more, at the same time as he rolls his hips again. The moan it earns him from Dean feels like winning the lottery, and Castiel doesn’t hold back anymore. He thrusts his hips again, and again, and again, setting up a steady pace to coax them both to full hardness. His hand around Dean’s throat tightens; not enough to cut off Dean’s air, but enough to tell Dean that _Castiel_ is going to lead, and Dean’s just going to have to deal with it.

                And honestly, by the tiny little moans that are starting to claw their way up from Dean’s throat, he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that at _all_.

                His large hands come forward and claw at Castiel’s shirt, and Cas breaks off the kiss just long enough to help Dean pull the offensive clothing away, tearing Dean out of his shirt as well. His hand returns to Dean’s neck once they’re both bare-chested, and he slots a thigh between Dean’s, thrusting _up_ roughly enough that Dean is forced to stand on his toes, gasping against Castiel’s lips. Cas swallows the noise and bites down on Dean’s lower lip, harder than usual, before trailing his mouth along the sharp cut of Dean’s jaw.

                While Castiel is occupied laying a line of kisses, Dean can’t help but rut against Castiel’s thigh wedged between his legs. Once Cas feels that Dean is fully hard in his pants, he places a hand on Dean’s hip, forcing him to still his movements so he doesn’t come before they even get started. Dean groans in frustration, but complies, and goes limp against the door, panting and clawing at Castiel’s sides with desperate fingers.

                Cas smiles, giving Dean’s neck a warning squeeze and nipping gently at his earlobe. “Ssh, slow down,” he breathes, right into Dean’s ear, causing a shiver to roll through Dean’s body that Castiel can feel from his chest to waist.

                He releases Dean’s throat again, and starts working at the button and zipper of his jeans. Dean swallows with a click and does the same to Castiel, and pretty soon both of them are stepping out of their pants, shucking their boxers at the same time because they’re both achingly hard at this point and are ready to move things along.

                Cas steps away briefly to dig around in his bag for a bottle of lube and a condom. He ends up with the watermelon flavored lube again in one hand, and a box of the ribbed condoms in the other, and when he turns back, he has to pause and take in the sight of Dean where he’s leaning against the door. His chest and cheeks are flushed with arousal in the dim light of the room. He’s panting, and his dick is standing at a proud curve up towards his stomach, red-tipped and leaking.

                The whole image of Dean sweaty, aroused, and completely _naked_ for the first time ever in front of Cas – no Ace bandage wrapped around his burnt arm, no shirt to hide his scars – makes something bloom happily in Castiel’s chest. He stands there for a moment, and a small smile touches his lips as he takes Dean in. Dean licks his lips and huffs a small, breathless laugh.

                “What’re you grinning at?” he asks, and Castiel trails his eyes over Dean’s chest, shaking his head a little.

                “You’re just…beautiful,” he says, and Dean blinks at him for a moment, his cheeks heating even more with a little bit of embarrassment for being under such scrutiny.

                It’s on the _very_ tip of Castiel’s tongue to blurt out _I love you_ , but before he has the chance, thank goodness, Dean smiles a little and says, “C’mere.”

                Castiel sighs, gripping the lube and stepping forward, pressing himself back up against Dean. The urgency from before is momentarily put on hold as Dean arches his neck forward and captures Castiel’s lips in a soft kiss. They stand there for just a minute or two kissing gently, their tongues twisting together in languid drags that feel like the closest definition to perfect that Castiel can think of in this moment.

                The sound of the cap on the lube bottle popping open is like a gun going off at a relay though, and very soon, their gentle kisses go back to the roughness they were before. Instead of pressing Dean back against the door again, Cas pulls him away from it, spinning him around without a thought and then holding him face-first against the red-painted wood. Dean gasps in surprise as Castiel presses up against him from behind, riding the crease of Dean’s ass with his hard cock slowly, smearing a bit of precome on his lower back as he nips at Dean’s neck from the back. He presses a kiss to the nape of Dean’s neck, and Dean looks back briefly before his muscles loosen and he sighs, resting his forehead against the door.

                Castiel uses his foot to kick Dean’s legs apart more, and then takes his hands and places them against the door as well with a silent order to keep them there. Dean complies, nothing but trust and ragged breaths as he closes his eyes and waits for whatever Castiel plans to do next.

                Cas squeezes a small amount of the watermelon lube onto two fingers before setting the bottle aside on the little table near the front door of the room. If he remembers correctly, Dean likes it with a little less prep than strictly normal, so while Castiel plans to be careful, he also keeps that small thought in mind, licking his lips and reaching his hand between the cheeks of Dean’s ass.

                Dean hisses a little as the cold gel brushes over his entrance, but then that hiss turns into a groan as Castiel massages the tight pucker to spread the lube around, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder from behind and placing his other hand on Dean’s side, splaying his fingers over the expanse of scars there. At the same time as he presses one finger inside of Dean, he starts whispering things into Dean’s ear. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and groans, listening as Castiel tells him how beautiful he is, how warm and tight he feels, how Cas promises that he’s going to make him feel so good. Dean’s moans get louder at the praise, and Castiel smiles as he thrusts his finger in and out of Dean’s hole.

                Dean’s already shaking a little, but this is the good kind of shaking. This isn’t fear or bad memories. This is arousal, in the purest sense of the word. When Dean starts canting his hips back and fucking himself subtly onto Castiel’s finger, Cas pulls out and, without warning, thrusts a second finger in alongside the first, not stopping until it’s buried all the way up to the last knuckle. Dean cries out, going rigid for a few moments before forcing himself to relax again, the cry trailing off into a quiet string of whimpers that don’t really ever stop as Castiel thrusts his fingers slowly, scissoring them to stretch Dean out just enough.

                It takes a few minutes, but eventually Dean is rolling his hips again, panting raggedly and fucking himself back on Castiel’s fingers like he’s just desperate for it. And Castiel thinks that’s enough. Dean feels loose to the point where Cas won’t hurt him, but not so much that Dean won’t feel it later.

                He pulls his fingers out of Dean’s hole, quickly reaching for one of the condoms in the box and tearing it open. Dean obediently leaves his hands on the door, and this time, he doesn’t even look back as Castiel is putting the condom on and slicking himself up with the remaining lube on his hand. He just keeps his forehead pressed to the door, back arched invitingly just a tiny bit, legs spread and ready for when Castiel decides it’s time.

                Cas is touched with the show of trust. He’s touched, but he doesn’t want to fuck Dean and not be able to see his face. It’s one of Cas’s favorite things to see Dean’s face when they’re fucking, see all the little micro expressions, the way his mouth goes slack and the little wrinkle forms between his eyebrows.

                So for a moment, Castiel just teases Dean, not touching him at all save for the tip of his cock brushing tantalizingly gentle over Dean’s wet hole. Dean groans and shifts, but no matter how much he cants his hips back, Castiel doesn’t push in. He just continues to rub himself up and down the crease of Dean’s ass. When Dean finally groans out a breathless, “ _Now_ ,” Castiel grins and grabs Dean’s hips, spinning him around so they’re facing each other again and slotting himself between Dean’s legs roughly.

                Dean makes a startled little sound, his hands flying to Castiel’s shoulders like he’s about to lose his balance. Cas feels just as surprised as Dean looks when he simply hoists Dean up, using his own body as leverage to pin Dean back against the door. Dean’s feet leave the floor completely, and automatically wrap around Castiel’s waist, and before either of them can comment on the fact that Castiel literally just lifted Dean up, Cas is positioning himself against Dean’s hole and slamming in.

                Dean howls in surprised pleasure, his head thumping back against the door and his hands tightening on Castiel’s shoulders like he’s holding on for dear life. Half of Castiel’s cock slides in on the first drag, and he stills, allowing Dean time to adjust as Dean at first tenses, and then melts forward, his forehead coming to rest against Cas’s as he breathes through the rough penetration.

                Castiel waits until Dean catches his breath before capturing his lips, thrusting at the same time, his thighs shaking with the effort it takes to hold Dean up against the door and still keep his thrusts controlled. Dean cries out again at the second thrust, and then moans a guttural, addicting sound at the third. By the fourth roll of Cas’s hips, he’s fully seated inside of Dean, and he finally lets out a groan of his own, his hands sliding up from Dean’s thighs to his ass so he has better leverage to lift and fuck Dean against the door.

                Dean gasps as Castiel pulls out, and then cries out when Cas slams back in again. As Castiel sets up an almost brutal pace, all but bouncing Dean up and down against the door, he pulls their lips apart and buries his face in the side of Dean’s neck. Dean’s throat vibrates with every moan that’s punched out of him, and Castiel can feel the moans against his lips as he kisses and bites the sensitive skin there. Dean’s hard cock is trapped between their stomachs, and Cas can feel him jerking his hips in little movements that seem to be all Dean can manage with the precarious position he’s in.

                To help him along, Cas presses closer, creating a perfect, tight press of their bodies around Dean’s straining dick, and Dean groans, high pitched and needy, his blunt fingers clawing at Castiel’s shoulders. The room is filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing and Dean’s uncontrollable moans and cries, the wet slap of skin on skin and the obscene slick sound of Castiel’s cock pistoning in and out of Dean quickly and relentlessly.

                They don’t last for long. After more than a two week dry spell, both of them are right at their limit, and as Castiel feels that burning begin to spike low in his gut, he picks up the pace, slamming into Dean’s tight heat, jolting Dean roughly against the door. Dean just holds on for dear life, one long, steady moan forced out of him, the pitch of his voice stuttering with the pace of Cas’s thrusts.

                They both come at the same time. The feeling of Dean’s release shooting between their bellies only serves to make Castiel’s own orgasm that much more enjoyable, and he groans loudly in tune with Dean as he empties inside Dean’s clenching body. Dean spasms a little, his muscles twitching with the intensity of his climax, and he works himself through it with little thrusts against Cas’s belly while Cas allows Dean’s ass to milk him of every last drop.

                It’s only about a half a second after their release that both of them just go loose-limbed and _collapse_ onto the floor of the motel room. Dean lands on top of Castiel, Cas’s cock slipping out of his body, both of them groaning at the feeling as they lay there panting, Dean’s face buried in Cas’s neck. Castiel’s hands are still gripping Dean’s ass, and he’s pretty sure his shaking thighs are going to be sore in a few hours, but he doesn’t care, because that was _amazing_.

                Dean gasps against Cas’s sweaty skin for a couple minutes, catching his breath, and then he lets out a little airy laugh, giddy and disbelieving. “Holy crap, Cas,” he says on the edge of an exhale, “You just lifted my ass all the way off the floor. How the hell did you do that?”

                Castiel chuckles, swallowing with a click, removing one of his hands from Dean’s back and placing it instead in Dean’s hair, scraping his fingertips gently along Dean’s scalp. “Adrenaline rush?” he supplies, his shrug all in his voice.

                Dean snorts, pulling his face away from Castiel’s neck to look down at him, and Cas gets momentarily lost in how completely fucked-out and gorgeous he looks right now. “Yeah right,” Dean replies with a grin, “I’d like a little warning next time before I decide to get fucked by The Hulk.”

                Castiel laughs, giving Dean’s hair a little tug. “Are you saying you didn’t enjoy yourself?” he asks teasingly, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “Now that would just be a lie,” he drawls, grinning when Castiel pulls him down by the back of his head and crushes their lips together again. Their kisses are slower this time, not filled with the urgency of arousal, Dean’s tongue twisting languid and gentle with Castiel’s. After a moment, Dean settles his body more firmly over Cas’s, and their spent cocks come to rest side by side between them, both still a little over-sensitive post orgasm.

                Dean lets out a little groan that sends a wave of chills through Castiel. That’s quickly becoming his favorite sound, the guttural rumble that somehow sounds like it’s coming straight up from Dean’s chest. An impossible sound, and intensely erotic. Despite the fact that Dean’s come is still trapped between their bodies and Castiel still has the used condom wrapped around his own dick, he still feels that slight tingle in his lower gut like he’s ready to go again, even though he knows that’s impossible. He slots their bodies more firmly together and presses up into the kiss, dragging his teeth over Dean’s bottom lip and earning himself another little groan from Dean.

                The moment is abruptly ruined by Dean’s stomach suddenly growling in hunger, low and long, and he bursts out laughing, breaking away from the kiss and resting his forehead against Castiel’s.

                “Sorry,” he laughs, “I guess being manhandled makes me hungry.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes, snorting. “Your appetite is the most unbelievable aspect of your personality,” he says, and Dean pulls away, grinning down at him and giving him one last peck on the lips before finally rolling off, pushing himself to his feet. Cas watches in amusement as Dean stumbles a bit, and then walks with a slight limp over towards the bathroom, wetting a washcloth under the faucet to clean himself up.

                With a sigh Castiel lets his head thump back against the carpet again, staring up at the chipped, yellow ceiling for a moment and listening to Dean hiss and grumble from the small bathroom about how he’s not going to be able to sit straight for a week. Castiel grins and pushes himself up, pulling off and knotting the condom, tossing it in the trash. He joins Dean in the bathroom, grabbing his own washcloth to clean himself up. His thighs feel shaky and weak, and he stretches his legs out a couple times. Dean doesn’t miss the opportunity to make fun of him for it.

                For some reason, Cas can’t keep his eyes off of Dean as Dean moves around the room. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Dean naked before, but it’s just…different this time. Maybe because Dean is truly naked now. No bandage on his arm, scars exposed on his side, completely comfortable like he and Cas have known each other for years, not months. Seeing Dean comfortable in his own skin makes him seem that much more unbelievably attractive to Castiel. The way his bowed legs look without jeans to cover them. The way his freckles are darker on his shoulders than across the bridge of his nose. The way his chest is still speckled with a flush of fading pink arousal. The way his scars stretch and pull like they’re straining to hold on with the movement of Dean’s muscles and ribs beneath.

                It’s never been this easy to see all of Dean’s scars before, and Castiel marvels at the way they stretch down from the side of his ribs, along the smooth planes of his stomach, down the side of his buttock and his sharp hipbone, and ending in a tapered edge halfway down his thigh. Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean would find the scars ugly; Cas can’t imagine Dean without them. They’re part of what makes him beautiful. He mourns the loss of the sight of them as Dean pulls on a pair of fresh boxers from his duffel bag, completely oblivious to the focused attention he’s receiving right now.

                God what is this boy doing to Castiel?

                Cas wipes away the rest of the lube and come from his body and rinses the washcloth, setting it aside before stepping out into the bedroom again and fishing in his own bag for another pair of boxers. They get dressed in comfortable silence, Castiel glancing back at Dean every few seconds and watching his beautiful skin disappear under layers of denim and flannel. While Castiel slips into a simple t-shirt of his own, Dean grabs a pair of socks from his bag and unfolds them. A small bag of white powder falls out of one sock and lands on the floor, and both of them stop and look down at it.

                Castiel cocks his head. “What is that?” he asks, stepping forward as he straightens out his shirt and reaching down to pick up the little plastic bag. When he glances at Dean, Dean’s cheeks are flushing red a little bit.

                “I forgot I had that in there,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

                Castiel’s forehead crinkles and he looks down, squinting at the contents of the bag, squeezing it gently between thumb and forefinger. “It is flour?”

                Dean huffs a little breath, reaching out and plucking the small bag out of Castiel’s hand. “It’s uh…cocaine,” he replies, clearing his throat, “Crowley gave it to me.”

                Castiel’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Really?”

                Dean glances at him briefly, looking a little ashamed. “Yeah,” he says, “I hid it in my sock drawer so nobody would find it. I guess I forgot it was in there when I was packing this morning.”

                Castiel eyes him strangely as Dean turns and tosses the little baggie back into his duffel, and then plops down on his ass on the floor to pull his socks on. Cas knows Dean does drugs – it’s kind of hard to miss that fact when they smoked weed together, and Dean showed up completely ruined on shrooms at Castiel’s house – but _wow_. Cocaine? Cas doesn’t even know the first thing about getting his hands on cocaine, let alone what it’s like to do it. He’d always figured cocaine was something that only rich kids did, something that was in the movies, or big cities. Not in Rail Pass. Not Dean. It’s just…odd, to think about.

                “Have you done it before?” Cas blurts, his curiosity getting the best of him as he looks down at Dean on the floor. Dean glances up at him.

                “What?” he asks, wiggling his toes in his sock and reaching back for one of his boots.

                “Cocaine.”

                Dean pauses what he’s doing, looking back up at Castiel and sucking his lower lip into his mouth contemplatively. He hesitates for a couple seconds before nodding. “Just once,” he replies reluctantly, but the tone of his voice doesn’t sound proud, almost like he’s recalling a bad memory.

                Castiel’s forehead creases and he cocks his head to the side, slowly sinking down until he’s sitting on the floor too in front of Dean. Dean’s eyes track him the whole way, like he’s waiting for some kind of response. Castiel licks his lips, glancing at Dean’s duffel where the cocaine is, and then back at Dean’s face, feeling a little torn. It’s not really his place to ask about or judge what Dean does with his time. Castiel doesn’t _own_ him. But something about this just makes him a little uneasy. What other drugs has Dean done? Heroin? Meth? Cocaine isn’t exactly mainstream. Not like weed.

                “Dean…” Castiel begins, hesitating, and then pulling in a breath, “How many drugs do you do?”

                Dean studies him for a moment, and then huffs a small breath, going back to wrestling his foot into his shoe. He shrugs a bit. “I dunno…a lot I guess,” he replies after a small hesitation. It’s not like this is a secret at all, but for some reason, it still surprises Castiel.

                He chews on the inside of his cheek for a second. “Are you an addict?” he asks, his voice a little quieter, almost like he doesn’t want to scare Dean away with a potentially personal question. From what Castiel has observed, Dean doesn’t like to talk about personal things for the most part.

                To his relief though, Dean barks a laugh, shaking his head. “No,” he replies, “It’s just for fun.”

                Castiel’s forehead creases. “Can’t you have fun without drugs?” he asks, picking at something hard crusted into the carpet with his thumbnail, “I mean, why do you do it?”

                Dean looks up at him as he slips his other foot into his boot, lacing it up while he studies Castiel’s face and purses his lips, still blushing a little. “I don’t know,” he says, pausing and then licking his lips again, almost nervously, “It’s just always been this way.”

                Castiel doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Just sits there in silence, watching Dean lace up his shoes. He sits there for a moment after he’s done, just toying with the cuff of his jeans and eyeing Cas carefully.

                “You’re uh…you’re not gonna lecture me about how bad they are for me or anything, are you?” Dean asks after a minute of silence.

                Cas huffs a little, looking down at where his thumbnail is digging into the carpet. “No Dean,” he replies, “It’s your decision.”

                Dean smiles a little, nodding and glancing down at his shoe. “I just…I dunno, Crowley gets his hands on all sorts of drugs. I think he’s gonna end up being some kind of huge drug lord when he’s older or something. He’s always had ways of getting drugs for us, and I just kinda did them with my friends. I don’t even really like them all that much,” he babbles, “And if Crowley didn’t have drugs for us, Alastair usually did.”

                At the mention of Alastair’s name, Castiel feels himself bristling slightly, but he tries not to let it show on his face. He must not do a very good job, because Dean sort of trails off with what he was saying, falling silent again. Castiel wants to ask Dean not to do drugs anymore, wants to ask him to just cut them out of his life. But that would almost be hypocritical, since Castiel smoked weed with Dean before. It’s not Cas’s place to tell Dean how to live his life. It’s not Cas’s place to ask Dean not to do drugs. But he still wants to. He wants Dean to be happy, and healthy. He wants Dean to live for a long time, away from all these bad things – from self-harming, from drugs, from psychopaths like Alastair.

                Cas doesn’t say any of that though. Instead, he settles on asking, “What are you going to do with it?” in regards to the cocaine, nodding his head towards Dean’s duffel bag.

                Dean pulls his pant legs back down over the tops of his boots, and chews on his lip for a moment, looking back at the little bag of cocaine. He hesitates before reaching back and plucking the drugs out of his bag again, holding them up and studying the little granules of white powder. Castiel is fascinated by how sinless it looks in that bag, how harmless. Especially given that hard drugs like that ruin people’s lives every day. It feels kind of odd being in the same room as this innocent-looking white powder.

                Dean spends a moment squeezing the powder gently between thumb and forefinger through the plastic, chewing on the inside of his cheek and thinking to himself. When he looks back up at Castiel finally, his eyes are contemplative.

                “Do you think it’s worth it?” he asks Cas, gesturing to the cocaine.

                Castiel glances at the drugs, and then back to Dean’s face again. He’s quiet for a moment, before cocking his head to the side. “If I say no, will it change your mind about doing it?”

                Dean huffs a little breath, shrugging and looking back down at the drugs. He stares at the cocaine for several long moments, almost like he’s pondering something to himself. The silence stretches for a while, but Castiel never thinks to break it, doesn’t even know what he would say.

                Then, Dean suddenly pushes himself to his feet, and without a word, he wanders over to the bathroom again. Castiel remains where he is on the floor, just watching Dean go. Dean steps up in front of the toilet, flipping the lid up, not even hesitating before thumbing the little plastic baggie open in his hands and tipping the cocaine out into the toilet. Castiel watches the white powder sprinkle away into the water like snow, and once Dean has emptied the bag, he tosses that into the toilet as well, reaching over and flushing it.

                With a gurgle, the drugs disappear down the drain and into the sewers, and Castiel pushes himself to his feet as Dean turns and leaves the bathroom once more. When they lock eyes again, Dean just gives a little shrug. “I’m getting too old for that shit anyway,” he says, by way of explanation, and Castiel feels a swell of pride bloom in his chest for some reason.

                He smiles, and Dean reaches out, lacing their hands together. Without another word, they leave the motel room, stepping out into the gloomy late afternoon weather in search of somewhere to buy some dinner.

 

*       *       *

 

                The rest of the afternoon is spent wandering around the small main street of Hope. It reminds Dean a lot of Rail Pass, how small it is, although everything here smells like rain and fish, and the foghorns can be heard throughout the entire town. The best thing about it though, is that nobody recognizes Dean here, and he has Castiel with him. It doesn’t matter that the weather is crap – Dean can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be than in Maine with Cas, away from all the shit back in Vermont.

                They had to get directions from the Soggy Rose owner Haley at the front desk just to find Main Street, but the town itself isn’t all that complicated. It’s small and easy to navigate, and if they get lost, all they have to do is walk towards the ocean to find their way back to the motel. The streets are mostly quiet, but despite the chill in the air, most of the little shops have their windows open. There are stands with signs advertising the price of freshly-caught fish here and there that Dean imagines are open in the mornings when the fishing boats reel in their catch.

                He and Cas find a small beachside bar to eat dinner at. It’s full of crusty old locals and young couples that Dean can tell have lived here all their lives. It takes a born-and-raised small town guy to know the look of people just like him, and Dean can tell that there are a couple generations of Hope locals in this bar. People stare when Dean and Castiel first walk in, but everyone seems relatively welcoming and friendly, if they even pay Cas and Dean any mind.

                The two of them find a table near the back windows where they can look out at the gray water and the cold, silver dusk. They eat surprisingly delicious fish sandwiches for dinner, and Dean even orders a second one, wolfing it down just as quickly as the first because he’s starving, having not eaten much of anything all day. Castiel doesn’t miss the opportunity to make fun of him for his big appetite again, so Dean ends up chewing with his mouth open, smacking his lips obscenely until he and Cas are both a laughing mess, and the locals are all glancing back at them like they’re crazy.

                They leave a big tip.

                When they finish, they walk hand in hand along the docks of the harbor near the bar, Dean smoking a cigarette, admiring all the old, wooden fishing boats with their cliché-looking nets and masts. Most of them look weather-worn and well-used, and Dean doesn’t doubt that these boats are all out on the water every day catching fish, which seems to be the main industry for this small town. Dean didn’t pay attention to what type of cargo Garth transports in his big truck out of Hope, but he thinks it was probably a lot of fish to be brought to stores across America.

                Dean and Cas get into a conversation about the fishing industry country-wide, and Cas seems fascinated with the different parts of the boats, and the way none of them look the same. It’s the most ridiculously boring conversation Dean has ever had, but for some reason, he loves it. He loves watching Cas completely unfiltered and unashamed of his smarts, sharing his knowledge of the weirdest shit, nerding out in front of Dean not unlike the way Sammy does sometimes.

                They only decide to leave the harbor and head back when the sky grows darker and the rain that’s been threatening all afternoon begins to fall. It’s hard to walk down the beach quickly with their shoes sinking into the wet sand, rain turning their skin ice cold, but they try their best. Dean clings to Cas’s hand and they follow the lights along the shore to find their way back to the Soggy Rose (and seriously, what kind of a name is that for a motel?).

                When they reach their room, both of them are soaked through to the bone from the downpour. It’s not the warm, tropical rain one would expect for a spring break getaway – it’s ice cold and heavy, and the ocean breeze doesn’t help. They shiver as they shuffle into the motel room and close the door on the evening chill, peeling their wet clothes off and draping them over various pieces of furniture throughout the room to dry off.

                Neither of them even has to suggest it – they both just instantly head towards the bathroom, ass naked and covered in goose bumps, to take a hot shower. It takes a few minutes for the water to warm up, but when it finally does, it’s nice, and the hot water lasts a long time. For a while, Dean and Cas just stand under the spray together, warming up their shivering bodies and debating in low voices what the best name for a fishing boat would be if they ever bought one. Castiel keeps suggesting these terrible, cliché names like _Woodwind_ , but Dean insists that he’d never dream of naming his boat anything but _Chewbacca_ , because who _doesn’t_ want a boat named _Chewbacca_?

                Dean considers to himself how much his mother would love it if he named a boat _Mary_ , after her, but he just bites his lip and doesn’t say anything to Cas about it. Thoughts of his mom need to stay safely tucked away in the padded corners of his mind where they’ve always been.

                When the two of them have warmed up enough, they take turns shampooing each other’s hair, and washing each other’s bodies down slowly with soapy cloths. Dean can’t stop himself from taking _extra_ time washing around Castiel’s cock, using first the rag, and then settling for using his hand instead, slick with body wash and warm from the spray of the water. Castiel stiffens a little, sucking in a sharp breath when Dean goes from just innocently washing Cas’s body, to slowly stroking him to life. It becomes obvious that the movement of Dean’s hand isn’t just incidental, and is anything but innocent, and Dean grins lecherously in the steamy confines of the shower as Castiel’s lips go slack and he slumps against the wall, canting his hips forward as a silent urge for more, groaning quietly.

                Dean leans in and licks up the side of Castiel’s neck, droplets of water clinging to his clean skin. He lays lines of kisses along Cas’s jaw, enjoying the feeling of Cas’s length slowly hardening in hand, curving upwards as it swells, until Cas is pumping himself forward into Dean’s fist. Dean captures his lips and Castiel kisses him hungrily, his hands finally coming forward and smoothing down Dean’s wet body in return. Dean is already hard, despite the fact that he hasn’t been touched yet. Just the feeling of Castiel’s cock slowly filling in his hand is enough to turn Dean on like nothing else.

                Castiel’s hands claw at Dean’s back and pull him in, and their bodies press together against the wall, Dean’s hand trapped between them still slowly jacking Castiel to full hardness. Cas manages to wiggle one of his hands between them and wraps it around Dean’s dick too, and Dean jerks and groans, plunging his tongue into Castiel’s mouth and pressing his thumb into the sensitive bundle of nerves under the head of Cas’s cock.

                For a while, it’s just this – gentle kisses and the smooth, slow drag of their hands on each other’s erections, the urgency increasing with every passing minute as they both get more aroused, leaking precome between their bodies, droplets of the pearly liquid mingling with the water streaming over their warm skin. Right when they’re both teetering on that edge, thrusting against each other and gasping into each other’s mouths, steady little moans washed out by the sound of the shower’s spray echoing off the bathtub floor, they slow to a stop, like neither of them wanted it to end so quickly, despite the fact that they had admittedly very rough sex not a couple hours ago against the door of the motel room.

                Dean pulls away from Cas’s mouth, panting, forcing himself not to thrust into Cas’s fist still wrapped around his cock, just resting there. When he opens his eyes, Castiel is already looking at him, his pupils so blown with arousal that Dean can barely see any blue. And _fuck_ , Cas looks beautiful, dark hair all matted with water, cheeks red, lips parted, skin shiny in the shower’s spray.

                Dean grins when he sees him, breathing hard and resting his free hand on the side of Cas’s neck. “You want to?” he asks, and Castiel gulps and nods, not even having to ask what Dean means.

                “I think you should this time,” Castiel says, concern penetrating briefly through his arousal, “You might still be too sore.”

                Dean snorts, but nods in agreement, leaning in and kissing Castiel again. “I’ll be right back,” he says, stepping away and immediately mourning the loss of Cas’s hand around his cock. Castiel’s forehead creases in confusion.

                “Where are you going?” he asks, shifting against the wall as his feet start to slip a little on the slick floor.

                Dean glances at him as he pulls back the curtain. “Lube,” he replies with a chuckle, “I’m not fucking you dry dude.”

                Cas holds up the bottle of body wash like an offer. “Won’t this do?” he asks, and Dean actually winces a little, hissing at the mere thought of using that as lube.

                “Hell no, that’d be like shoving a bar of soap up your ass,” he laughs, stepping out of the shower, “We’ve got plenty of real lube, we’ll use that.”

                Cas’s brow furrows and he looks down at the bottle of body wash in his hand. Dean snorts again and slips out of the bathroom, his skin prickling in the chill of the room. He hurriedly fishes in Cas’s duffel for the first bottle of lube he can find, not even bothering to check what flavor it is. He digs around and grabs a condom too, and then shuffles back to the bathroom, his teeth chattering and skin frigid by the time he steps back into the shower.

                Cas is exactly where Dean left him, reading the label on the body wash, and Dean plucks it out of his hands, setting it aside before leaning in and kissing Castiel again. Dean’s cock, which shrank a little in the cold of the room, quickly springs back to life again, and he only kisses Castiel for a couple more minutes before turning him around so Cas’s front is pressed against the tile wall.

                Dean takes his time gently scissoring Cas open, mindful of the fact that this is only the second time Castiel has bottomed for anyone ever. His hole tenses and flutters around Dean’s probing fingers, still impossibly tight, and Dean enjoys every little moan he drags out of Castiel with each smooth plunge of his fingers. Dean places sweet, open-mouthed kisses along the wet skin of Castiel’s shoulders and back, nipping playfully at his neck and earlobes while he fingers him loose. The combination of Dean’s lips tickling Castiel and his thick fingers spearing Cas open makes Castiel squirm and utter small sounds that are somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

                By the time Castiel is canting his hips back and meeting every thrust of Dean’s hand with a roll of his body, Dean has four fingers buried deep inside him, and he feels confident that Cas is loose enough so that Dean won’t hurt him. Just in case though, Dean coats his condom-wrapped cock with another generous dollop of lube before lining himself up and pressing his hand flat against Castiel’s lower belly to pull his body back into a gentle thrust that fully seats Dean inside of Castiel with one smooth glide.

                Both of them hold their breath as Dean plunges in, and then let it out with a synchronized gasp when Dean’s balls come to rest against Castiel’s ass. For a few moments, they just stand there panting with Dean’s cock buried to the hilt, Castiel’s hands clawing at the wet tiles of the wall, shower water beating down against Dean’s back with a numbing rhythm.

                For the most part, Dean manages to keep his moaning to a minimum as he starts to move again. When Castiel is fucking him, sometimes Dean can’t really control some of the obscene sounds that come out of his mouth. But when he’s in control like this, it’s easier to set the pace and press his lips against Castiel’s skin, biting down whenever he feels the urge to moan too loudly. He enjoys listening to Castiel’s little whimpers and groans for a change, which Cas tries to muffle against the tiles.

                Dean grins and quickens his pace a bit, only pulling out halfway with each thrust and angling himself so he’s brushing over Castiel’s prostate on every pass. He knows the exact moment he hits it with the way Cas suddenly goes rigid and cries out, one of his hands flying back and grabbing onto Dean’s ass, pulling him into the next thrust. Dean’s probably going to have fingernail marks on his ass after this is over, but he doesn’t care. He just does it again, aiming for Castiel’s prostate with each punch in, and sliding his free hand down to grip Castiel’s cock, jerking him with short, rapid pulls that are deliberately out of sync with the slow glide of Dean’s cock.

                Somehow, despite the fact that Dean is topping right now, his thighs burning with the effort it takes not to slip on the shower floor, Castiel still manages to seize control of the situation as they’re both growing closer to climax. He pulls Dean in roughly with the hand on his ass, guiding his every thrust, and grinding his body back against Dean’s at the same pace. Dean lets Castiel control the rhythm, gasping against his skin as he feels heat coiling rapidly in his lower abdomen.

                Dean strips Castiel’s cock in short little tugs, focusing on the nerves below the head, occasionally swiping his thumb over Cas’s leaking slit. Castiel’s climax takes them both by surprise, and his whole body goes rigid, stripes of comes shooting up and decorating the tiles of the wall. His hole becomes impossibly tighter around the length of Dean’s cock as he comes, and all the noises Dean has been trying to hold back this whole time come spilling out in an undignified litany of curses and guttural groans as his hips stutter and he comes with his cock buried as deep as it possibly can be inside of Castiel’s warm body. He doesn’t even have to move to work himself through the climax – Castiel’s spasming body does all the work for him, massaging his shaft and carrying him through his second orgasm of the day until Dean is practically boneless, slumping forward and resting against Castiel’s back while Cas catches his breath with his cheek pillowed on the tile wall.

                They remain there for a few minutes, not talking, just breathing hard, Dean’s hand still wrapped around Castiel’s dick and his own cock buried in Castiel’s ass, hot water washing over both of them in the steam-filled room, slowly rinsing Castiel’s come off the wall, and stray dribbles of lube away from their bodies.

                When they finally pull apart, it’s a slow separation of their bodies. Dean pulls his spent cock carefully out of Castiel, and they both groan as the soreness of their muscles really sets in. Dean will be the first to admit that shower sex isn’t exactly an easy feat to accomplish, but he’s had experience with it before, and he knows how little his thighs will be thanking him in the morning.

                Cas seems even more thoroughly fucked out than Dean is, which makes Dean chuckle, because usually it’s _Dean_ that’s half out of his mind and dazed after they have sex together. Instead of taking the opportunity to make fun of Cas, though, Dean just lathers up the washcloth again with more soap, and gently cleans Castiel of lube and come, carefully wiping between his legs and kissing the fading red flush on his cheeks and chest, paying extra attention to the little freckle above Castiel’s nipple.

                When they finally step out of the shower, Dean pulls the condom off of himself and tosses it in the trash, and they dry off with the surprisingly soft towels provided by the motel before slipping out into the bedroom and quickly bundling up in sweatpants and hoodies before their wet hair can make them cold again. Dean spends about ten minutes figuring out how to turn on the heater near the window, and then they pull back the shades to watch the rain still falling steadily outside.

                It’s dark now, and when Dean and Cas curl up on the (very squeaky) mattress and look out at the world, they can see the beam of a lighthouse sweeping through the fog and rain. The lighthouse must have been hidden by the fog earlier, but with how strong the sweeping light is, it can’t be far away. Foghorns are still blaring from somewhere far out at sea, and with the heavy rain and steady breeze, Dean can hear waves crashing weakly at the shore with the tide.

                For a while, they just lay there in silence, staring out at the pouring rain, lazy and content, and Dean can’t think of anywhere he’d rather be than right here. It’s crazy to think that a year ago, he and Castiel were strangers, and now here they are. Dean can’t help the little tired smile that touches at the corners of his mouth, and he snuggles up closer to Castiel’s side, enjoying the feeling of hard muscles and a sharp hipbone through Cas’s hoodie. Cas doesn’t question it – doesn’t question how clingy Dean is sometimes. Dean is grateful for that. He’s not clingy with just anyone, but he thinks maybe when he allows himself to feel, he _feels_ with an intensity that would scare most people away.

                But not Castiel. Cas isn’t going anywhere. He promised that. And frighteningly enough, Dean believes him.

                A fresh new blanket of relief settles soft and warm in the pit of Dean’s stomach as he remembers that Castiel isn’t moving away to South Dakota like his father said last night. Sure, Cas is eighteen now and he could technically come back whenever he wanted to visit Dean. And it’s not like Dean would be against a long-distance relationship or anything. But…to be able to _touch_ Cas like this, be _held_ by him…it’s not something Dean readily _admits_ he needs, but he really _does_ need it. He craves it, more than nicotine, or burning himself. Just being touched by somebody he loves (and fuck, there’s that word again: _love_ ) is so damn important to him.

                He wonders what the hell happened to Castiel’s parents to make them so cruel that they drag Cas and Anna from house to house like fucking musical chairs. From the sound of the fight between Cas and his father last night, Dean wonders just how similar his parents are to Dean’s own father. He wonders if good parents even exist.

                Chewing on his lip, Dean pulls his eyes away from the window and rolls onto his side, facing Castiel and studying his face in the dim light of the room until Castiel returns the gaze, his round blue eyes looking black in the shadows. Their only source of light is a single lamp across the room near the small kitchenette.

                Castiel huffs a small breath out of his nose after a moment, a tiny smile sparkling in the depths of his eyes. “What are you staring at?” he murmurs lowly, his hand coming up and his soft fingertips ghosting absently over the dark bruise on Dean’s cheek from the fight with John last night.

                Dean smiles a little, swallowing as Cas’s fingers continue their journey down the side of his face and his thumb brushes gently across Dean’s bottom lip. He thinks to himself for a moment, gritting his teeth and fiddling with the strings on Cas’s hoodie while he studies his face.

                Then, with a little inhale, he asks, “Why do your parents move so much?”

                Castiel’s hand stops for a moment, fingers lingering on the edge of Dean’s jaw. It’s an innocent enough question, but Castiel’s lips still press into a thin line for a moment before his face relaxes again.

                “You’d have to ask them,” he replies, voice a little hard, “I’ve never been consulted, nor have I been provided with an explanation.”

                Dean hums a little, chewing on the inside of his cheek and shivering a bit when Castiel’s hand starts moving again, fingertips trailing gently back up the side of Dean’s face and then tickling lovingly along his hairline.

                “Were they strict while you were growing up?” Dean asks, out of curiosity. He pauses and then adds, “Well…when they were around, anyway?”

                Castiel’s eyebrows pop once and he huffs a little humorless breath. “My parents are what you’d expect the average conservative Christian American to be,” he replies after some thought, “When they weren’t traveling for work, we spent many evenings in worship at local churches when I was young, and it was expected that I kept my life and surroundings flawlessly immaculate. If that answers your question.”

                Dean chuckles a little, shaking his head. “That sounds worse than being raised by a military man.”

                Castiel studies him. “Like your father, you mean?”

                Dean nods, the motion made awkward by the way he’s laying on his side. “I mean, my dad’s strict, but he’s not a religious nut, so at least I have that to be thankful for.”

                Castiel smiles a little, snorting. “Yes, well…my mother and father received promotions in their respective careers and spent more time away from home at some point when I was still young. We stopped going to church as often after that, which I suppose is a good thing, given the sort of churches I was dragged to.”

                Dean’s brow furrows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

                Castiel shrugs a little, huffing a small breath, his hand coming to rest on the side of Dean’s neck and his thumb stroking along the edge of Dean’s jaw, like a prayer all in itself. “Let’s just say, in a lawless society, the sort of people who attended the churches I was forced to go to wouldn’t hesitate to beat me to death given half the chance, had they found out my sinful ways.”

                Dean’s jaw stiffens. “You mean if they found out you were gay.”

                Castiel nods. “Yes,” he replies, pursing his lips and shrugging, “I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t really believe in church anymore.”

                Dean cocks his head to the side a little, picking at the tiny plastic piece at the end of the string on Cas’s hoodie. “And you’re parents? They’re not cool with it either, huh?”

                Castiel smiles, but it’s a bitter curl of his lips rather than a humored one. He raises an eyebrow, looking at Dean. “Well, you heard the argument last night. You tell me how cool they are with having a gay son.”

                Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You were arguing about you being gay? I thought the fight was about the move.”

                Cas shrugs again. “It started that way, but in my desperation to stay in Rail Pass, I somehow accidentally blurted that I’m seeing a boy, and my father, to say the least, was not pleased.”

                Dean barks a laugh. “Wow Cas, that’s the worst coming out story I’ve ever heard,” he chuckles, and Castiel snorts, giving Dean’s shoulder a shove.

                “Yes, well, at least it’s out there,” he says, “My parents can gather all their friends together now and raise enough money to send me far, far away where there are no sinful boys to tempt me.”

                Dean snickers and rolls on top of Castiel, bracketing him in with an arm on either side of his head, leaning down and kissing him. “I’m not gonna let that happen,” he says firmly, nipping playfully at Cas’s jaw, “I don’t care if we have to stay holed up and hidden away in this motel room forever, you’re not going anywhere.”

                Cas huffs a small laugh and smiles up at Dean. Dean can’t help but lean down and kiss him again, just one more slow drag of their lips, before he falls to the side again, sighing and letting his head sink into the soft pillows. The bedding is actually surprisingly comfortable for how cheap and isolated this motel is. It’s certainly more comfortable than Dean’s mattress back home anyway, and he nuzzles his cheek into the pillow for a moment, snuggling close so that the tip of his nose is touching Castiel’s shoulder, and every time Dean inhales, he can smell the sharp, sweet scent that belongs specifically to Cas.

                Dean chews on his lip for a moment and hooks his ankle with Cas’s as he gets more comfortable on the bed. “My mom was a Christian, I think,” he ponders aloud, and Castiel peers down at him, a soft look in his eyes.

                “I’m sure she was one of the good ones,” he says, no room for argument in his voice. And Dean has to agree.

                He smiles a little to himself, and huffs a small breath. “She would have loved you,” he murmurs, and Cas doesn’t say anything in reply, just settles back into the pillows more and weaves one of his hands through Dean’s, the room starting to warm up now that the ancient heater in the corner is chugging out warm air. Another distant foghorn slices through the dampness outside and cuts thick and glottal through the silence of the room. It should be an ugly sound, but Dean finds it surprisingly beautiful, and he sighs contently, closing his eyes as he starts to get tired. It must be late, but he hasn’t checked the time since they left for dinner earlier. Time doesn’t really matter here, when they’re safe and tucked away together in a little corner of Maine where nobody can find them.

                They lay there in silence for a while, warming up, bodies pleasantly sore from the combination of the nearly nine hour truck ride today and the two rounds of much-needed sex. Waking up in Castiel’s bed back in Rail Pass this morning seems like a distant memory.

                Dean is just starting to sink into that state of half-awake-half-asleep when Castiel pulls in a small breath.

                “Hey Dean?” he asks, his voice quiet, and Dean blinks his eyes open.

                “Yeah?” he mumbles, mouth pressed partially to the pillow, muffling the word.

                Castiel hesitates for a moment, and then shifts a little. “If I…well, if you see me having a nightmare tonight, will you wake me?” he asks.

                Dean’s forehead creases a little, and he lifts his head just slightly, looking at Castiel. “You still have nightmares about Nathan Hautley?”

                Cas nods. “Sometimes,” he replies, “I don’t really understand them, but they make me feel…hollow.”

                Dean feels a weird twist in his stomach at the use of the word _hollow_. He’s actually disconcertingly familiar with what it feels like to be hollow. To have the sensation of feeling so much that you just feel nothing at all, like a black hole opening up inside you and swallowing everything there is. Numbness.

                A small knot forms in his throat with a sudden realization, and he pushes himself up onto one elbow so he can look down at Castiel’s face, study him more closely.

                “Cas…when you dream about Hautley, what happens in the dreams?” he asks.

                Castiel looks a little confused, but his eyes drift for a moment anyway while he ponders that. When he answers, it’s with a furrowed brow. “Nothing really,” he replies, “Just…a lot of loneliness. And isolation maybe. Sometimes Elsa Hautley is there too, although generally she’s dead.”

                Dean stares at Cas for a very long moment, so long in fact that Castiel gives him an uneasy little smile and asks, “What?”

                Dean shakes himself a bit, chewing on his lip, and then rolls onto his stomach so he can hold himself up on both elbows and still see Cas’s face. If what Dean is thinking right now is right – and it’s really only just a thought – then he doesn’t want to have a conversation like this without making sure he can look into Cas’s eyes. The things Cas is describing right now are straying into somewhat familiar territory.

                “You know, I hate to say this Cas, ’cause I’m not exactly a poster boy for mental stability, but…” Dean pauses, hesitating and chewing on his lip before reaching out and running his thumb along Cas’s forehead, “Maybe you have some freaky repressed shit working its way out in your head through these dreams.”

                Castiel’s brow furrows beneath Dean’s thumb, and Dean tries to smooth away the confused wrinkle as Castiel asks, “What do you mean?”

                Dean shrugs, feeling kind of silly because he’s not a professional when it comes to shrinking people, nor is he a stable enough person to be doing so. But maybe it takes someone who’s been there to know what it looks like when someone else is depressed.

                “Cas…be honest,” Dean says, leaning down and resting his chin on Castiel’s midsection when his sore arms grow tired of holding him propped up, “You haven’t exactly had an apple pie life so far, man. You’ve had the shit beat outta you more times than you can count, your parents are a couple of angel-fluffing dicks, and you’ve spent more time alone than you have with other people.”

                Castiel still looks confused, and he cocks his head to the side in that adorable way of his that warms Dean’s very core. “What are you saying?” he asks, and Dean huffs a little breath.

                “I’m saying that nobody comes out of living a life like that and is completely okay, you know?” Dean points out, “Maybe when you dream about Nathan Hautley, you’re not really dreaming about _him_ , you’re dreaming about _you_.”

                Castiel stares at Dean for a long, long moment, his furrowed brow smoothing out a bit as he considers that. It takes a few minutes for Castiel to speak again, and although he still looks confused, Dean can tell he’s starting to sort of get what Dean's trying to say.

                “Am I…am I sad?” Castiel asks, and the way he says it is so childish and innocent that Dean actually laughs a little, running his fingers through Cas’s hair and shifting up so he can kiss him gently.

                “I don’t know Cas,” he replies, “It’s just a theory. I mean…it’s not normal for people to have nightmares like the ones you’re having. And you’re just…you’ve spent so much time alone in your life that maybe your mind is trying to tell you that you’re not okay.”

                Castiel is quiet again for a few minutes as he thinks about that. If Dean considers it, it actually makes a lot of sense. Castiel’s brain latched onto the story of Nathan Hautley (which Castiel told Dean that he did a lot of research on before moving to Rail Pass) and used it as a foundation to filter repressed emotion through dark nightmares. Like his psyche’s last resort to saving him from a mental breakdown.

                Dean’s been there, he has. Only, instead of dreams, Dean burns himself. It comes in all different forms. And the fact that he’s recognizing this makes him concerned about Castiel’s mental health. Nobody is completely stable in the head, but after the things he and Cas have both been through, they have every right to be broken.

                “What should I do?” Castiel asks, after some time thinking about it, “How…how do I make it stop? The dreams?”

                Dean licks his lips, shaking his head a little. “When you find out, let me know,” he says, huffing a humorless laugh, “Maybe you should go talk to Cara about them. She’ll be able to help.”

                Cas chews on his lip and nods a little, sighing heavily, and Dean feels a bloom of sympathy form in his chest. He leans down and kisses him again, halfway regretting bringing this up at all. But if it helps Cas to get to the bottom of why he’s having nightmares about Hautley, then sometimes the mind-fucks are necessary. Dean could learn a thing or two from himself in that department.

                After a while, Cas swallows with a click, looking up at Dean again, and Dean sees some sort of raw emotion in Castiel’s eyes that he’s never seen before. It’s a little unnerving, but Dean feels strangely relieved beneath his concern for some reason.

                Maybe they’re both just really tired. That could be it.

                “Can I tell you a secret?” Castiel asks, and this time he’s speaking in a whisper, like there’s someone just outside, eavesdropping. Dean swallows and nods, and Castiel chews on his lip for a moment before saying, in a low voice, “I think…maybe I’m terrified of being alone.”

                Dean feels a little silly right now, whispering like they’re a couple of ten-year-old girls at a slumber party. But the way Cas says it, like it’s a truth that he’s been hiding away from everyone, like he’s just confessed to murder…like he’s a small child lost in the fog outside – it fractures something down deep in the shadowed, bloody caverns of Dean’s heart, right at the source of his being.

                He stares at Castiel, sees the genuine, raw truth in his eyes, and before Dean even knows what he’s doing, he’s gathered Cas up into a tight hug, burying their warm bodies so close together that it’s almost like they’re one person.

                “I want you to listen to me, okay?” he whispers firmly, his lips right next to Castiel’s ear, “You don’t have to be scared. You don’t have to have nightmares, alright? You’re _never_ going to be alone Cas. Not ever.” Castiel’s dark, damp hair tickles against Dean’s face, and he squeezes his eyes shut, holding Cas tighter, because he wants him to understand. This is real, stone hard truth. This is a promise.

                Neither of them has to be scared anymore.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made yet another couple of aesthetics for this fic, and figured I'd link them here :) An anon on my tumblr requested that I make a Castiel aesthetic since I already made a Dean one, so I made that. And then I also made an edit for Chapter 32 as well (I saw some pictures of a young Jensen in another movie role where he was crying, and felt inspired haha - here's a link, and I also attached it to the bottom of Chapter 32 in the body of the fic since it goes with that chapter haha)
> 
> [Castiel Aesthetic](http://coldinthestudio.tumblr.com/post/124358425202/my-cas-aesthetic-made-for-hautleys-bend-anon)
> 
> [Chapter 32 Aesthetic](http://coldinthestudio.tumblr.com/post/123761814952/yet-another-aesthetic-made-for-my-fanfiction)


	35. Kingdom Of Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, sorry for typos I may have missed :)

When Castiel wakes up the next day, the dim gray-green light of foggy coastal morning is filtering in a salty glow through the window. Dean’s head is pillowed on Castiel’s stomach, and Dean himself is curled into a ball sideways on the bed, both of them exactly where they were late last night when they must have fallen asleep talking. The room is too hot, the antique furnace in the corner still chugging out heated air at a constant rate, but Castiel ignores the tiny droplets of sweat beading at the small of his back and doesn’t move, trying not to wake Dean up where he’s snoring softly against Cas’s midsection.

                Castiel lifts his hand and sets it gently on Dean’s head, stroking his hair feather-light and staring up at the cracked motel ceiling, blinking sleep away from his eyes. He carefully keeps his mind blank, just floats to full wakefulness without any concept of time. They came here to Maine to get away from everything else. Castiel doesn’t want to think about Alastair, or school, or his parents, or his nightmares. He just wants to exist here with Dean, and that’s what he plans to do.

                It’s called a _vacation_ for a reason, after all.

                He has no idea how long it takes Dean to wake up, but when Dean does, it’s with a slight groan and a sniffle, and he rubs at his eye with one wrist, looking childish and confused for a moment before he remembers where he is and a lazy smile curls his lips. Making a little sleepy sound in the back of his throat, he curls up closer to Cas, draping his arm over Cas’s stomach and nuzzling his nose into the fabric of his hoodie.

                Castiel huffs a small laugh through his nose and returns to carding his fingers through Dean’s hair, and Dean butts his head a little bit into the press of Cas’s hand, seeking out more of his touch.

                “Good morning,” Cas greets quietly, yawning and looking down at the top of Dean’s head.

                Dean hums in response, and then a moment later makes a little disgruntled sound. “It’s fucking hot in here,” he grumbles, voice muffled by Cas’s sweatshirt.

                Castiel chuckles a little, blowing out a breath. “We can go walking on the beach if you want,” he replies, peering out the window at the gloomy morning, “I think the rain has stopped. It looks cold out there.”

                Dean hums again, smacking his lips a little. “Will there be food involved?”

                Cas snorts. “We can find somewhere to eat breakfast, yes.”

                Dean makes a happy sound, lifting his head finally and turning his face towards Cas, resting his chin on Cas’s stomach and giving him a lazy smile. “Way to a man’s heart,” he replies with a chuckle, before lifting himself up and crawling his way up Cas’s body until he’s settled over him. They kiss for a few minutes, just long enough to wake themselves the rest of the way up, and then they have to break apart, the heat of the room becoming overwhelming.

                When they crawl out of bed, the first thing they both do is peel off their hoodies and sweatpants, both of them speckled a bit with sweat. Dean opens the front door of the room, letting in some of the crisp morning air while they change into day clothes and brush their teeth, and Castiel crosses the room to the furnace, switching it off. The thing sputters and dies with a loud clang, and it reminds Cas a bit of the heater in his house back in Rail Pass.

                Both of them are limping a little, legs and asses sore from their activities the day before. But it’s a pleasant soreness – a reminder of how much fun they had. Cas feels his cock twitch in his pants a little just thinking about yesterday, but he tries to ignore it for now. They need food first – food is important. Sex can wait until later today.

                It takes Dean longer to get dressed because of all the layers of clothing he insists on wearing, but Castiel just waits patiently for him. He enjoys watching Dean pull clothes on almost as much as he enjoys watching Dean remove his clothes anyway. The way Dean’s muscles ripple and strain against the fabric when he’s straightening out his shirts, his bowed legs and scarred skin and freckles disappearing under the layers. When Dean is done buttoning his jeans and stepping into his boots, Cas comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Dean’s middle, nipping playfully at the side of his throat and wanting nothing more than to bury himself in this boy.

                Dean snorts and wiggles around in Cas’s arms so he’s facing him, and they kiss for a few more minutes in the middle of the motel room before Dean complains that he’s hungry and pulls Cas out the door. The morning air is so fresh and crystalline that Castiel actually has to stop for a moment and just _breathe_. The air in Rail Pass is crisp, but it smells of dirt and earth and deer, a rich history of railway industry riding every string of breeze. Here in Maine, it smells like the color of the water, fresh and thirst quenching like having an ice cube tucked under your tongue. Cas doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until he opens them and finds Dean staring at him with an adoring smile on his face. It makes Cas flush bright red, and he gives Dean a sheepish smile, reaching out and weaving their fingers together.

                Dean doesn’t say anything, but he reels Cas in by his hand and plants a big kiss right on Cas’s temple before they step off the sidewalk in front of the motel doors and head down towards the calm, flat water of the beach. It’s still foggy, like yesterday, but the fog is thinner today, and they can see the lighthouse on the edge of a rocky outcrop a little ways up the sandy shore. The pier near the motel stretches out into the water, the end of it disappearing from sight in the ghostly mist. Foghorns are still blaring periodically from far out at sea, and Castiel can hear the clanging of bells and pulleys as early morning fishermen dock their boats in the harbor and package up their catch to sell at the booths in town.

                Cas is too lost on the beauty of it all, the feeling of the cold, humid air prickling heavy and salty against his skin, the smell of fish and sand and water in his nose. Massive wads of purple and green seaweed litter the shore in places where the tide reached last night, and Dean is childish enough that he runs up to them and stomps on the bulbous globes at the ends of some of the branches, popping them underfoot while Castiel laughs and squints out across the foggy water looking for the phantom-like silhouettes of ships in the gloom.

                For the most part, Cas lets Dean lead him along the water’s edge. He’s too busy taking in the beauty around him to pay attention to where he’s going. Thankfully, Dean is like a bloodhound when it comes to food, and he manages to sniff out a small diner full of fishermen and early bird families right on the shore, past the pier and the lighthouse and nearly a half an hour’s walk from the Soggy Rose Motel. The smell of maple syrup and bacon wafts from the cracked windows of the restaurant, and the whole place is set up on stilts that are covered in sea plants and barnacles and mussel shells from when the tide comes in and licks around their bases.

                The locals are friendly but curious about Dean and Castiel, and while the hostess seats them, she asks questions about where they’re from and why they’re in Hope, Maine. Dean twists a fantastic story about how they’re actually undercover FBI agents on the path of some dangerous criminal mastermind, and that they can’t actually say anymore because they’ve already said too much, and the information is classified.

                The hostess nods like she understands, and seats them quickly, walking away with a confused look in her eyes. Cas kicks Dean’s leg under the table.

                “You’re going to get us arrested for impersonating the FBI!” he scolds, but Dean just laughs and tangles his feet with Cas’s under the table.

                “Sit up straighter Cas,” he whispers conspiratorially under his breath, “You’re not making a very convincing spy.”

                Castiel nudges him again with his foot. “If we’re run out of town by the locals, I’m holding you fully responsible,” he states, and Dean just snorts, giving him a mischievous grin.

                They both order the same thing for breakfast – some sort of pigs in a blanket dish that’s absolutely amazing. It’s the kind of food that Castiel can tell had someone’s heart and soul poured into it, a local restaurant owner who really cares about what he’s serving. You don’t find this sort of quality food in the big city, or even in many places in Rail Pass. Although the Cajun place owned by Dean’s friend Benny in the heart of Rail Pass is an exception.

                Castiel eats slowly and savors the food, while Dean wolfs his down and orders seconds, like expected. Cas enjoys the feeling of Dean’s feet wrapping around his under the table, both of them absently nudging at each other’s legs, while Cas looks out the window next to their booth and watches the boats disappear into the fog, the water lapping at the shore, gloom heavy in the sky with the hint of rain that probably won’t fall until late afternoon, like yesterday.

                Castiel can feel Dean staring at him while he looks out the window, but he tries not to blush. Even before they knew each other, it was always a thing they did – the staring. Castiel stares at Dean probably twice as much as Dean does to him, so he just lets Dean stare for a while now before finally tearing his eyes away from the calm morning outside and looking back at Dean. Dean’s eyes are practically glowing in the cold morning light, the silver disk of the sun glinting off his green pupils in a luminous shade that reminds Castiel of moss covered bark right after a rainstorm.

                He can’t help it – he smiles. Just a little bit. His own smile causes Dean to smile back, and he winks lecherously. “What’re you grinning at you sap?”

                Castiel snorts a little, rolling his eyes at Dean’s cocky smirk because Dean knows _exactly_ what Cas is thinking – that Dean is just about the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. That much is obvious. So, while Dean plucks his coffee up from the table and grins around the brim as he takes a sip, Castiel leans forward just a bit and says in a low voice, “I’m going to make you come so many times today that you’re not going to walk straight for a week.”

                Dean’s eyes widen and he abruptly chokes on his coffee, sputtering and coughing, setting the mug back down on the table so he doesn’t spill it. Castiel smiles smugly, leaning back again into his seat and watching as Dean pulls himself together, a few of the locals glancing back at the commotion.

                With one hand wrapped around his throat, Dean stifles a couple more coughs. “Holy fuck Cas!” he whispers hoarsely, “There’s a time and a place!”

                Castiel laughs. “You asked me what I was grinning at. I only assumed you wanted the truth.”

                Dean coughs again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and raising his eyebrows at Castiel. “You know I can only come so many times in one day, right? I’m not a machine,” he says, glancing around and keeping his voice low so the other patrons don’t hear him.

                Cas grins at him. “We’ll see,” he replies, cocking his head to the side a little, like he’s assessing Dean.

                Dean eyes him up and down for a moment. “That a threat or a promise?” he asks, voice cracking a little as the last of the coffee works its way out of his lungs.

                Castiel shrugs just a bit, licking his lips. “We’ll see,” he repeats, and Dean huffs a small laugh, and then promptly gulps.

                They stare at each other for a few moments, and then Castiel reaches over the table, using his thumb to wipe a tiny smear of sauce off the corner of Dean’s mouth. His own cock twitches a little in his pants again as he takes in the slight flush to Dean’s cheeks, and he has to force himself to pull his hand away. He’s shocked at how ready to go his own cock is after they had sex twice just yesterday, but he’s not complaining, and from the looks of it, neither is Dean. Maybe it’s something in the air. Maine is turning out to be quite an interesting place.

                They pay their bill quickly and leave the restaurant before they can cause any more commotion, both of them snickering a little at the still-confused look the hostess gives them when they walk out the front door. The main street of Hope is only a couple blocks away, so they temporarily put their mindboggling sexual appetites on hold to do a little exploring and wandering around the town.

                It’s midmorning by the time they’re wandering hand-in-hand down Main Street, stopping at different shops that look interesting. It’s not a tourist town, so there really aren’t souvenir shops. Just a lot of fishing stores with gear, and stores dedicated to the upkeep of different boats in the harbor. Speckled here and there are shops with local artists selling paintings and jewelry, and Castiel and Dean wander through a few of them, finding interesting works that cost way too much. Castiel considers buying Dean a necklace or something, but Dean already has Sam’s necklace around his neck, and the elephant hair bracelet on his wrist, the knife Cas gave him for his birthday in his duffel back at the motel. Plus Dean insists that Castiel is the best gift of all, at which Cas rolls his eyes and drags him down the street to the next shop.

                They come across a little toy store with surprisingly modern-looking toys, for the look of the rest of the town. There’s a section for children under three with big blocks and stuffed animals and toy trucks. Dean and Cas end up inadvertently getting into a pillow fight with several of the larger stuffed animals until the shop keeper has to tell them to stop. While Cas wanders through a section with different jigsaw puzzles, considering buying one and bringing it home for Jesse and Anna to try, Dean gushes childishly over the different racecar toys and costumes towards the back of the store.

                After a few minutes, Dean pokes his head around the shelf and gives Castiel another seductive little grin, holding up a pair of toy metal handcuffs in a plastic package, waving them in the air and waggling his eyebrows. Castiel cocks his head to the side and walks over, taking them out of Dean’s hand and studying them. They look surprisingly real, with a tiny little set of keys on a red ribbon inside the plastic wrap as well.

                “How much do they cost?” Castiel asks curiously, and Dean’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling, but he glances back at the shelf where he got them.

                “Five bucks,” he replies.

                Castiel hums, and then looks at Dean, giving him a little smile. “They’re perfect. I’ll get them.”

                Dean gapes at him for a moment, and then closes his mouth with a click. “This town is giving you all sort of interesting ideas, isn’t it,” he states, eyeing the cuffs.

                Castiel just smiles at him again and leans in, planting a small kiss on his lips and then slipping past him, heading down the next aisle.

                They end up grabbing several other random toys to buy before finally heading up to the register to check out. Dean gets Sam a toy stethoscope that actually sort of works, since Sam wanted to be a doctor at one point. Cas buys Anna a stuffed little cat toy, and Jesse another rubber chicken, since his last one got stuck in the drain. The shopkeeper stuffs all the toys into a plastic bag, and both of them blush when they watch the handcuffs disappear into the bag as well, looking so innocent mixed in with all the other toys they buy.

                When they leave the toy shop, they stop at a small grocery store to pick up food for the motel, so they’re not out spending more money on every meal they have here for the duration of their stay. Dean mostly grabs a bunch of processed junk food, but Castiel makes sure there are some healthy choices in there as well. They stop at a couple of the local stands selling this morning’s catch of fish, and end up buying a big bag of clams and a couple fish to fry up for dinner at their little two-burner stove back in the motel room tonight.

                By the time they have their hands full of bags and are heading back down towards the beach, it’s a little after noon. They elect not to head back to the motel just yet, and instead find a semi-private little area of the beach behind some barnacle-crusted rocks and next to a smattering of tide pools. They set their bags of food and toys aside for now and find a dry patch of sand to sit on, looking out at the flat gray-green water and the fog. They’re close to the lighthouse here, but with the rocks encasing this little section of beach, they can’t hear any people. They can’t even hear the bells and clinking of the harbor boats.

                They eat some of the food they bought at the grocery store for lunch, and just sit there and talk for a while. Dean tells Cas about what Sam is doing in New York for spring break, and Cas wonders aloud how they both did on their midterm exams. Dean also points out that he has a nagging, small worry in the back of his head that Castiel’s father wasn’t being completely honest in that note he left, and that something’s going to happen to make Cas have to move away again eventually. Castiel disagrees though, and tells him that Bartholomew isn’t the type of man to play tricks like that. He’s straightforward, and he never would have left a note like that had he really not changed his mind. Although Cas is still _damn_ curious as to why Bart changed his mind about moving them to South Dakota in the first place, especially after such a heated argument.

                He tries to forget about the argument though. They’re on vacation; they don’t need to be thinking about such things. Instead, he watches Dean light up a cigarette, and enjoys the way his lips wrap around the filter, bruised cheekbone sharpening as he inhales. They talk about almost everything while they sit there in the chill of the foggy afternoon, although they carefully avoid bringing up anything to do with Alastair, or their parents, or anything else that can ruin the tranquility of this day.

                At one point, Dean smiles a bit as he stares out at the misty ocean, and he says that he feels like a king. When Cas cocks his head to the side and asks what he means, Dean gestures to the water and the rocks and the fog and says he feels like he’s a king, and he’s sitting on his throne looking out over the world that belongs to him, to _them_. He says he feels like he can do anything, and who knew a tiny beach in a forgotten fishing town in Maine could make someone feel like that? Dean even at one point refers to this very beach as their _kingdom of fog_ , and says that no one can take this place away from them.

                Cas huffs a small laugh and leans in, kissing Dean gently and just letting him have his fantasy for a while. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend. Sometimes it’s nice to get lost. Isn’t that why they came to Maine in the first place? To get away from it all?

                They sit there kissing for a few minutes, and at first it’s just the gentle brush of lips and soft caresses. But after a while, it becomes more heated, and they press up close to each other, the taste of Dean’s cigarette still fresh and minty on his tongue, sweet and bitter all at once. Castiel chases the flavor, licking his way into Dean’s mouth and sliding his hand to the back of Dean’s head, weaving his fingers through that soft hair and giving it a small tug that earns him a low groan from Dean’s throat.

                At the sound of Dean’s first groan, and the feeling of his own cock stirring to life in his pants, Castiel forces himself to break off the kiss, panting and looking at Dean’s arousal-flushed cheeks inches away.

                “We should go back to the motel,” Castiel states, and Dean nods, swallowing with a little gulp.

                “I’m completely on board with that plan,” he replies, his voice a little hoarse from the kiss, and they both push themselves to their feet, brushing sand off their asses and grabbing their shopping bags, ignoring their half-hard cocks trapped in their pants as they walk back down the beach to the Soggy Rose.

                It takes a little over a half an hour to get back to the motel, and by the time they get there, their arousal has waned just a bit. They wave to Haley, the motel owner, who is out in front of the rooms sweeping the sidewalk and going in and out of the doors, keeping things clean for the guests that don’t ever seem to be coming. The humid seaside air has made their clothing a bit damp, and the second they get into their room, they shed their layers, both ending up in just their jeans.

                Dean sticks the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the outside doorknob, and then locks it so no one comes in. They put the fish and clams and other perishable foods into the little mini fridge in the kitchenette, and while Cas is putting away the stuffed cat and the rubber chicken he got for Jesse and Anna, Dean comes up behind him and starts placing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the back of his neck, snickering a little at the way a small shiver rolls through Castiel’s body.

                But Cas has other plans for Dean today, and he straightens up, turning around and placing his hand flat against Dean’s chest to stop him from diving in for another kiss. Dean chews on his lip as Cas smiles at him, and nods his head towards the bed.

                “Take off your pants and go lay down,” he says, brushing his thumb over Dean’s bottom lip. The gentle press makes Dean’s lip pop out from where it was trapped between his teeth, and Dean stares at Cas for a second before chuckling and stepping back, flicking open his belt and letting his jeans pool at his feet, wandering over to the bed and sprawling out on his back in just his boxers, muscles and scars rolling tantalizingly as he arches his back and stretches like a cat on the bedspread. It takes Cas a second to realize Dean is doing it on purpose just to tease him, and he blushes and looks away, reaching down and grabbing the first bottle of lube he finds out of his duffel bag, as well as a couple condoms.

                The last thing he grabs is the pair of handcuffs from the plastic toy store bag, and Dean props himself up on his elbows to watch as Cas tears open the package and pulls them out. It takes him a second to figure out how to use the little pressure latch on the side of the cuffs to pop them open, and then he wanders over to the bed, setting the lube and condoms on the nightstand, Dean’s eyes tracking him the whole way.

                Cas climbs onto the bed, straddling Dean’s hips and leaning down to kiss him. Dean relaxes into the bedspread and kisses Cas back, their lips dragging together smoothly as Dean’s body melts into that sort of submissive demeanor he gets when he knows Castiel is going to take him apart. For a few minutes, it’s just this – slow, gentle kisses and Cas’s body settling over Dean’s, shifting down so he’s between Dean’s legs instead of straddling him.

                Without even breaking off the kiss, Cas takes both of Dean’s arms, smoothing his hands along freckled skin as he drags Dean’s arms above his head, carefully avoiding the cigarette burns on his forearm. Cas only briefly pulls away from Dean’s mouth to loop the chain of the handcuffs through the metal slats of the headboard, and then he snaps the cuffs around Dean’s wrists, tightening them enough to hold Dean down, but not enough to hurt him.

                Dean gives the cuffs a couple of tugs, metal clanking against metal, checking how secure they are, and then he chuckles a little, grinning up at Castiel.

                “Who knew you were so kinky Cas?” he teases, and Castiel snorts, leaning down and nipping playfully at his neck a little bit.

                “Well I did promise to make you come multiple times today, Dean,” he murmurs into Dean’s ear, loving the way Dean’s body stiffens a little beneath him, “I never break my promises. The cuffs are just insurance.”

                He hears Dean swallow with a click, and Cas smiles with satisfaction, pushing himself up again so he can look down into Dean’s eyes. Dean blinks up at him, his pupils slightly dilated with arousal. When Castiel shifts a little, he can feel that Dean is starting to harden in his boxers, and they haven’t even gotten started yet. It sends a thrill through Castiel’s veins, and he leans down, licking a stripe up the side of Dean’s neck before trailing kisses down his chest, over his nipples and ribs and scars.

                There are so many possibilities for what Castiel can do to Dean right now, when Dean is like this, cuffed to the bed and growing more aroused every second. Cas plans on keeping true to his word from this morning at breakfast though – he really _is_ curious to see how many times he can make Dean come in one afternoon. He kind of wants to go slow, but at the same time, he’s too eager to see that flush in Dean’s cheeks, hear his guttural moans, his hitched breaths.

                So without warning, he latches onto one of Dean’s nipples and laves his tongue over the sensitive little nub. Dean gasps and arches off the bed a little, a _clank_ coming from the handcuffs as his arms jerk instinctively in the bonds. At the same time as Castiel nips and licks at Dean’s nipple, he slides one hand down and ghosts it over the growing bulge in the front of Dean’s boxers. Dean jerks and moans as Cas wraps his hand around Dean’s dick through the thin material of his underwear and begins to stroke him to life. There’s another _clank_ from the cuffs as Dean rolls his hips up into Cas’s teasing hand, trying to get more friction on his swelling cock.

                Cas smiles, and pulls off of Dean’s nipple, only to slide over and focus his mouth’s attention to the other one, laving at it with his tongue and working it into a hard little peak while he massages the heel of his hand into Dean’s erection.

                It’s no time before Dean is moaning and rutting rhythmically up into Cas’s stroking hand, and Cas is periodically rolling his own hips forward, fantasizing about fucking Dean like this, when Dean is so helpless and needy, squirming and groaning on the bed. And because of _Castiel_. Cas _did_ this. In only a few minutes, Castiel _made_ this happen, simply by kissing and touching Dean in all the right places.

                It’s not so much pride in _himself_ that Castiel is feeling, as it is pride in _Dean_. Because Dean is _amazing_. The way he can just let go like this and let Castiel do with him what he pleases. The way he _trusts_ Castiel so much, to take him apart and bring him right to that edge, and then put him back together again afterwards. It’s truly baffling to Castiel that such an amazing human being exists. And even more baffling that he’s beneath Cas right now, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut, rolling his hips up and moaning like shame doesn’t even exist.

                Castiel pulls off of Dean’s nipple, and Dean gasps in relief, which only turns into a groan when Cas thumbs at the head of Dean’s cock through the boxers, focusing on the sensitive nerves there and watching every minute little flicker in Dean’s expression. Castiel wants to _watch_ it happen, the moment Dean comes. He wants to see it in the way his pupils expand, and the way his breath hitches, the way his body freezes for a few moments before that release. And it looks like he’s going to get his wish very, very soon.

                He waits until Dean blinks his eyes open and looks at him again, his lips parted a little as he pants and squirms, and then Castiel removes his hand from Dean’s erection, giving him only momentary relief. Dean gasps out a desperate sigh, his hips twitching of their own accord for a few seconds before stilling as he waits to see what Cas is going to do next. Castiel actually sees Dean’s eyes widen a bit when he brings his own hand up to his mouth and licks a wet stripe up his palm, eyes locked with Dean’s the whole time. Then, without breaking the stare, Cas snakes his hand back down, this time dipping it into the waistband of Dean’s boxers, and he wraps his hand, wet with saliva, around Dean’s pulsing shaft.

                Dean’s eyes slam shut again at the contact and he arches once more. Another _clank_ sounds from the handcuffs, and Dean digs his heel into the mattress, using it as leverage to thrust upwards into the circle of Cas’s hand. Castiel settles his free hand against the side of Dean’s face, brushing his thumb over one of Dean’s closed eyelids.

                “Look at me,” he says to Dean, trying to keep his voice even despite the fact that he’s having a really hard time keeping his arousal in check.

                It takes Dean a moment, but eventually he opens his eyes, staring up at where Castiel is now only a few inches from his face. When he has Dean’s full attention, Castiel smiles and starts to stroke him faster, smearing wet blots of Dean’s precome down his shaft as Dean’s thighs shake with impending orgasm. Dean’s forehead creases and he gasps out another desperate sound, his moaning growing louder.

                Castiel doesn’t even really think before he dips his thumb into Dean’s mouth, partially to muffle his moans because Cas is worried that Haley is right outside still cleaning, but mostly so Cas can feel Dean’s wet, velvety tongue on his skin. Dean’s lips close around Cas’s thumb, and without even being asked, he just starts to suck on it, swirling his tongue around it like he would while giving a blowjob. Little moans are punched out of Dean with every pass Cas’s hand makes on his shaft, and Dean’s hips are beginning to stutter as he grows closer to climax.

                He tries to warn Cas that he’s about to come, tries to say something around the thumb in his mouth, but Cas just thrusts his thumb further inside, cutting off whatever warning Dean was about to say. The handcuffs _clank_ once more against the metal of the bed, and Castiel revels in every flicker of Dean’s expression, the strangled groan in the back of his throat, the jerk of his body, and then with a couple more quick passes of Castiel’s hand over Dean’s cock, Cas feel the hard flesh twitch, and wet, hot release begin to spill over inside Dean’s boxers and against Cas’s hand.

                The cuffs _clank_ a couple more times as Dean cries out in the back of his throat, body going rigid as he pumps into Cas’s hand, coming hard, gasping around Cas’s thumb. All the while, he keeps his eyes open and on Castiel’s face, because Cas told Dean to look at him, and Dean’s eager to please. It’s the most satisfying thing in the world to watch Dean’s face while he comes, and Castiel works him the rest of the way through it until a tiny wrinkle forms between Dean’s brows and he twitches with oversensitivity. It’s only when Dean melts back into the bed, the handcuffs jingling a little, that Castiel finally drags his thumb slowly out of Dean’s mouth, smearing saliva across Dean’s cheek.

                Dean lays there breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest, as Castiel pull his hand out of Dean’s boxers, bringing it up to his own mouth and licking Dean’s come off his fingers while Dean watches. A strangled groan manages to find its way up from Dean’s throat, and his blown green eyes fixate on Cas’s mouth, watching until the come is cleaned away from his hand. Then Castiel leans down and locks lips with Dean again, and even though Dean is suddenly exhausted, he still makes a solid attempt to kiss Castiel back, licking the taste of his own come off of Cas’s tongue.

                When they pull away, Dean’s head drops back to the pillows and he huffs out a breathless laugh. “Holy fuck, Cas, you don’t waste any time. Jesus.”

                Castiel chuckles, mouthing at Dean’s jaw. “I’m just getting started,” he replies, and Dean swallows with a click, shivering.

                “You really weren’t kidding this morning, were you,” he surmises, and Castiel lifts himself up again, smiling down at Dean.

                “That was number one,” he replies, nodding towards Dean’s come-covered crotch, “I hope you’re keeping count.”

                Dean blinks up at him like he’s not sure whether to believe Cas or not, but when Castiel grins at him mischievously and pecks him on the lips one more time before starting to slide down Dean’s body again, Dean huffs a little laugh and lifts his head, looking down.

                “You can’t be serious,” he says hoarsely, his legs twitching a little as Castiel kisses his way down Dean’s stomach and thumbs at the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them off.

                Cas responds by licking up the little cooling pools of come around Dean’s cock, enjoying the hitches in Dean’s breath and the way his whole body twitches a little with oversensitivity post-orgasm.

                Without warning, Castiel nips at the inside of Dean’s thigh, and then lifts up and wraps his mouth around Dean’s cock. Dean cries out in surprise and arches off the bed, the handcuffs _clank_ ing a few times as he twists, trying to get away because his nerves are still too sensitive. The bucking of his body, however, forces his cock further into Castiel’s mouth, and Cas laughs around Dean’s shaft as Dean lets out a desperate sob, his head falling back into the mattress.

                “Cas, fuck! Wait, wait, I _can’t_!” Dean chokes out as Castiel teases his tongue around the head of Dean’s dick slowly, looking up at Dean’s face from under his lashes. All he can see is Dean’s long neck where his head is tilted back, his chest heaving, his whole body twitching as his spent cock reluctantly begins to stir back to life in Cas’s mouth.

                Castiel doesn’t give him a moment’s mercy though, and just continues to suckle on his shaft until it swells again in his mouth, Dean’s desperate, pained sobs turning into shameless moans and whimpers again, the handcuffs _clank_ ing every few seconds as Dean shivers and jerks.

                For now, Cas ignores how hard his own dick is still trapped in his jeans, and just focuses on Dean’s pleasure. It takes longer than the first time, but eventually Dean is twisting and arching off the bed again, his entire body freezing up and then melting as he comes once more directly down Castiel’s throat with a hoarse cry. Cas dutifully swallows every last drop, and then sucks Dean’s shaft clean as Dean lays there panting and whimpering, his body shaking.

                When Castiel crawls his way back up Dean’s body and kisses him again, Dean can barely kiss back, exhausted in the wake of two orgasms in less than twenty minutes. Cas thumbs at the small streaks of tears at the corners of Dean’s eyes, kissing his cheeks and his jaw and the tip of his nose until Dean’s breathing evens out and he swallows with a click, his eyes falling closed.

                Cas places his hand on the side of Dean’s face again, stroking his freckled skin, the stubble on his jaw, and he looks adoringly down at the green eyed boy below him. “Two,” he counts quietly, and Dean’s eyes fall open again, teary and exhausted, but sated. He stares at Cas for a moment before giving him a shaky smile, lifting his head up to capture Castiel’s lips in a brief kiss. It’s about all he can manage before his head drops back to the bed.

                “You’re a freaking sadist, you know that?” he grumbles, and Castiel snorts, shaking his head.

                “Careful, Dean,” he warns with a smug smile, “I’m not the one tied to the bed right now.”

                Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he sighs shakily, laying there for a second and just trying to calm the shaking in his limbs. Cas doesn’t let him relax for long, though.

                Minutes later, he has his fingers coated in lube and breaching Dean’s hole while his hand slowly jerks Dean’s exhausted cock back to life. Dean whimpers at first, begging Cas to stop, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells Cas that Dean doesn’t _want_ him to stop. Not really.

                So he keeps going. He spears Dean open slowly with lube-coated fingers, taking his time thoroughly stretching his hole since Dean is probably still sore from yesterday. It’s when Cas has four fingers buried to the hilt inside of Dean, his fingertips teasing up against Dean’s prostate and his lips wrapped tight around the head of Dean’s cock, laving at his slit, that Dean comes again, practically dry, his hole contracting rhythmically around Cas’s fingers as he twitches and cries.

                “Three,” Cas counts out loud, and Dean just whimpers in reply, shaking his head.

                Despite the fact that Dean has just come, Castiel doesn’t stop pumping his fingers in and out of Dean’s body, making sure to brush right up against his prostate on every pass. Dean twists and sobs, the handcuffs _clank_ ing loudly, his whole body twitching and writhing with intense overstimulation. Cas can’t _believe_ how much Dean is shaking right now, and he smoothes his free hand down Dean’s thighs and along his stomach, shushing him and trying to relax his shivering muscles as Dean groans.

                Castiel continues to pet and finger fuck him until Dean’s cock fattens up reluctantly again, for the fourth time. Just when Cas thinks Dean is about to come again, the tip of his dick purple and downright painful looking, Cas eases up and gently pulls his fingers out of Dean’s hole. Dean actually _sobs_ with relief, his tense body melting back into the bed for a moment as Cas pushes himself up onto his knees and starts to unbutton his jeans.

                Dean opens his eyes when he feels Cas crawl up his body once more, straddling Dean’s chest and pulling his hard cock out of his jeans finally. Steady drips of precome are leaking from the tip and Castiel is so hard it’s really starting to hurt, but he wants to drag this out.

                Holding his aching erection in one hand, he reaches down with his other and slides his hand behind Dean’s head, gripping his hair gently and lifting his head off the mattress. Dean lets himself be moved willingly, and when Castiel whispers, “Open your mouth,” Dean does so without hesitation, moaning as Castiel slides his cock between those plump, swollen lips. Once his cock is inside Dean’s mouth, Cas lets go of it, bracing himself with one hand on the wall above the headboard and groaning as Dean tongues at his throbbing shaft.

                Practically sitting on Dean’s chest, Castiel pulls Dean’s head in by his hair, and starts thrusting slowly into his mouth. Dean’s body twitches and the handcuffs _clank_ again as he tries to open up his throat, and Castiel goes slow, giving Dean ample time to suck in deep breaths before he thrusts back in slowly. Eventually, they set up a steady pace, and Castiel groans again, shivering and biting his lip to keep from coming too soon. Dean’s mouth is hot and wet, and it feels _amazing._ It reminds Castiel of the first time Dean blew him, at that party in Johnson in that coat closet. So perfect and warm, so beautiful.

                While Dean sucks and moans, Castiel strokes his fingers through Dean’s hair, guiding his head at the right pace, and whispering to Dean how dirty he looks doing this, how gorgeous, and wrong, and perfect. Dean looks up at him from underneath his eyelashes, his green eyes still watery with tears from his earlier orgasms. Cas smiles down at him, and then promptly lets loose a startled groan as Dean increases the suction of his mouth around Cas’s shaft. Cas’s mouth falls open and he goes rigid, nearly coming right then and there. From the twinkle in Dean’s eyes, Cas can tell that that was a little bit of revenge for all the torture and teasing Cas has been doing to Dean since they got back here.

                Castiel chuckles a little, breathlessly, and strokes Dean’s head with his thumb, reluctantly pulling his cock free from Dean’s mouth. A string of drool and precome connects the tip of his dick to Dean’s lips, and for some reason, Cas thinks it’s the hottest thing in the world when it finally breaks and ends up smeared on Dean’s chin.

                Cas briefly rolls off, kicks his jeans and boxers to the floor, and then grabs a condom and settles back on top of Dean, between his legs. He rolls the condom on quickly, and then Dean utters a startled little sound as Castiel hooks Dean’s legs up over his shoulders, and lines himself up with Dean’s well-prepped hole.

                Cas looks down at Dean, waiting until Dean locks eyes with him, and then he slams inside, unable to hold himself back anymore. Dean wails in pleasure, his eyes squeezing shut and the handcuffs _clank_ ing again as he tenses with the penetration. With one thrust, Cas fully seats himself inside of Dean, so roughly that the slap of skin on skin echoes through the silence of the room.

                In an effort not to come too quickly, Castiel remains still for a moment once he’s fully inside, breathing and clenching his muscles to stave off his impending orgasm as Dean shakes and his loud moans trail off into a string of whimpers and harsh breaths. Dean’s skin is coated in a sheen of sweat, and he looks absolutely _wrecked_ , which is pretty much exactly how Cas prefers him. To have Dean like this always, to be in this room in Maine just connected like this – that’s what Castiel thinks heaven is going to be like. This right here is perfect. He doesn’t want this to end.

                When he pulls himself together, Cas slides back out of Dean’s body, until just the head of his dick remains inside, and then slips back in again, less roughly, and more reverently. The slow glide forces a long, keening moan out of Dean, and his thighs where they’re hooked over Cas’s shoulders twitch and tense.

                That’s the pace Castiel continues with the rest of the time, fucking Dean nice and slow and listening to every little whimper and exhausted sob that’s punched out of him as Cas pays extra attention to Dean’s prostate and watches as Dean’s exhausted, spent cock tries desperately to carry him through a fourth climax.

                It takes a while. Dean’s body is just about out of energy to come, but Castiel still manages to coax one more, near-painful orgasm out of the green eyed boy. Dean doesn’t cry out this time – his breath only hitches, and he tenses up, his hands clasped in fists around the chain of the handcuffs as he gives a shallow thrust of his hips into midair. His dick twitches untouched between them and a few small dribbles of come are all that leak out with his fourth orgasm. The gentle contracting of Dean’s hole around Cas’s cock is all Cas needs, and with a deep groan, he comes deep inside of Dean’s body, working himself through it with a steady grind of his pelvis into Dean’s ass.

                Dean’s legs slip off of Castiel’s shoulders, falling limply to the mattress, and Cas collapses on top of him, his face buried in Dean’s neck as he catches his breath, still buried to the hilt inside Dean’s thoroughly fucked hole. When Castiel catches his breath enough to speak, he whispers out, “Four,” against Dean’s sweaty skin, reaching up with one hand and stroking his fingers through Dean’s messy, damp hair.

                When Dean doesn’t even respond with so much as a groan or whimper, Castiel pushes himself up and looks down at him. Dean’s eyes are closed, and he’s out cold. Castiel is alarmed for a split second, before he realizes that Dean just passed out from the toll that coming four times in less than an hour has on one’s body.

                Cas huffs a small laugh, stroking Dean’s cheek with a thumb for a moment before pulling out of him, groaning as he slips free from Dean’s ass. He leaves Dean there for just a moment, peeling the used condom off his own dick and walking over to the bathroom to clean himself off. He carries a wet washcloth back over to the bed where Dean is still laying limp, and he wipes away the various streaks of come and lube from Dean’s skin, cleaning him slowly, spending a while just running the wet cloth across his exhausted muscles.

                Dean eventually stirs, and groans as he wakes up, his eyelids fluttering open. Castiel kneels over him and places a knuckle under Dean’s chin, tilting his head up and kissing him before Dean is even fully awake yet. Dean groans against Castiel’s lips and his forehead wrinkles in mild confusion before he just relaxes and allows Cas to kiss him awake. It takes a couple minutes, but eventually Dean kisses him back, and while they lay there kissing, the handcuffs rattle and clank a little as Dean fiddles with them.

                He seems to twist his wrists in the cuffs a few times, and then suddenly, Dean starts laughing, his laughter muffled by Castiel’s lips. Cas pulls away from the kiss and looks down at Dean in confusion, although he can’t help but smile at Dean’s tired laughter, the way Dean can’t even keep his eyes open but he still manages to have enough energy to laugh.

                “What’s so funny?” Cas asks, cocking his head to the side. Without even opening his eyes, Dean snickers and jerks his hands in the cuffs, his head rolling to the side with a tired exhale.     

                “I’m stuck,” Dean murmurs, his voice hoarse from moaning so loudly. Castiel’s forehead creases in confusion.

                “What do you mean?”

                Dean rattles his hands in the handcuffs for a moment, huffing another small laugh. “They won’t come off,” he replies, blinking his eyes open and arching his head back so he can see his hands trapped in the metal cuffs.

                Cas rolls his eyes and finishes wiping the rest of the come and lube off of Dean’s spent cock. Dean hisses and groans, jerking a little under the gentle attention. “Not again,” he moans out, and Castiel laughs a little, shushing him.

                “Don’t worry, I’m just cleaning you up,” he replies, finishing and then tossing the soiled rag aside before crawling up the bed and trying to fiddle with the latch on the handcuffs to make them pop open. He turns them this way and that in his hand, pressing his thumb to the little latch, jiggling it a bit, but no matter what he tries, the latch doesn’t budge, and the cuffs don’t open. His eyebrows press together in confusion, and he tries pulling on them a bit.

                “What’s wrong?” Dean asks, his fingers twitching in the bonds. When Cas glances at him, Dean’s head is tilted back again and he’s eyeing the cuffs.

                With a furrowed brow, Castiel says, “Um…the latch is jammed.”

                Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “As in I’m stuck here?”

                Cas rocks back on his heels, troubled, staring with a disgruntled expression down at Dean’s bound hands. “It would appear that way, yes,” he replies.

                Castiel doesn’t expect Dean to suddenly burst out laughing, head thrown back into the pillow and his hands jerking in the restraints. He looks at Dean in confusion. “I don’t understand, why are you laughing? You’re trapped.”

                Dean tucks his face into his bicep, body shaking with laughter. “Dude, this is like a scene straight out of a porno,” he giggles, jerking his hands uselessly in the restraints.

                Castiel chews on his lip worriedly. “What if I can’t get them off?” he frets, glancing around the room for something to use to pry the cuffs off of Dean’s wrists.

                “Well it’s not like _you’re_ the one tied to the bed,” Dean points out with a snort, before bursting into another fit of laughter. Despite that, though, Castiel tries tugging at the cuffs again, feeling a little bit of panic brewing in his chest.

                “This isn’t funny Dean!” he says, slipping off the bed for a moment and going over to the package the handcuffs came in, searching for the little set of keys that came with them from the toy store.

                “I’m handcuffed naked to a bed Cas, it’s pretty damn funny,” Dean replies through his laughter, and even though Cas is genuinely concerned, he still manages to snort a small laugh, and realizes belatedly that both of them are still completely naked, and that if someone were to walk in right now, they’d have a _whole_ lot of explaining to do. Lord, but if Castiel’s parents could see him now.

                He finds the little set of keys on the carpet near his duffel bag, and walks back over to the bed, crawling up near Dean’s bound hands and turning them to try and find the fake little lock on the side, as if that will even work. As he sticks the fake little metal key into the fake lock, praying that this will actually miraculously make them open, Dean pulls himself together enough to chuckle out, “Why is it that we always manage to get ourselves into these situations every time we have sex?”

                Cas glances at his face. “I don’t recall ever being in a situation quite like this,” he mutters, flicking at Dean’s fingers when they get in the way.

                “Uh, hello? Do you not _recall_ the crazy guy shooting at us in the backwoods near that barn? I’d say that’s up there in our list of wild sex stories,” Dean points out, and Castiel pauses, pondering that for a moment before popping one eyebrow and shrugging.

                “Alright, I suppose that counts,” he replies, dipping his head down to hid his smile as he tries to turn the little key in the lock. Of course, the lock is fake, just as he assumed, so he ends up just using the little key to pick at the release latch, hoping it’ll come un-jammed.

                “Are you actually keeping a list of our sexual encounters?” Cas asks after a few moments, and Dean gives him an upside down grin, still looking exhausted.

                “In my head,” he replies, before pausing and then asking, “Why? Do you think I should write them down?”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh. “That would make for an interesting autobiography,” he ponders aloud, and Dean snorts.

                Before he has a chance to say whatever it was he was about to say, the little latch on the cuffs suddenly clicks, and the cuff around Dean’s right wrist springs open. Dean groans in relief as the metal leaves his skin, and Castiel makes a small, satisfied sound, carefully pulling Dean’s arms forward and helping him sit up slowly. Dean groans again as he sits up, wincing from his sore ass. His muscles shake a little from the strain. Cas props him up against the headboard with a pillow, and then goes to work getting the other latch un-jammed, which takes less time now that he’s got the technique down.

                Dean watches Cas’s face while Cas concentrates, and when the other cuff pops free a few minutes later, Cas tosses the metal toy aside and takes Dean’s hands, rubbing gentle thumbs over his mildly abraded wrists and laying kisses to the red skin.

                Dean’s head thumps back against the headboard, and he lets out a tired sigh. “I don’t think I’m gonna be able to come again for like a year after that,” he grumbles, and Castiel grins, leaning in and kissing him gently.

                “Just say thank you,” he snorts, and Dean huffs a laugh.

                “Thank you,” he drawls, and Cas responds by pinching his nipple, making Dean hiss and jump. “Asshole,” he adds as Cas laughs and rolls away before Dean can return the favor.

                Castiel stands up off the bed and grabs a pair of sweatpants from the floor, pulling them on. When he turns back around, Dean is shifting down and rolling onto his side, bunching the pillow up under his head and burying his face in it. While Cas watches, Dean groans, squirms a little, and then rolls onto his stomach, hugging the pillow and settling into the mattress.

                For a moment, Castiel just stares at him, as he’s prone to do. He stares at the lean lines of Dean’s back, the curve of his spine right before it slope into the globes of his bare ass. The bow of his legs, and the dark freckle on the back of his thigh. His hair is a mess, but Dean doesn’t seem to care, too busy rubbing his face into the pillow and sighing contently.

                With a fond smile, Castiel wanders back over to the bed, and crawls on top of Dean, blanketing himself over Dean’s back. Dean stiffens a little for a split second, and then shivers and relaxes again, and Castiel plants a kiss between his shoulder blades. “What are you doing?” Cas murmurs against his warm skin, and Dean grumbles into the pillow.

                “Going to sleep, what’s it look like I’m doing?” he mumbles back, his voice muffled by the bedding.

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, a little tired himself. They stayed up late last night. “Can I join you?” he asks.

                Dean is quiet for a second, and then shifts a little, rolling over. Cas pushes himself up so Dean has room to move, and Dean looks up at him for a second, his expression warming just a bit. Without a word, he winds his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pulls him down so they’re both laying on their sides facing each other. Cas chuckles a little, and at this angle, all he can really do is bury his nose in Dean’s hair. So he does, and Dean sighs, his breath washing over Cas’s collarbone. They both close their eyes, and even though it’s still cold and light out, early afternoon, they manage to fall asleep in seconds, exhausted from the day’s activities.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean wakes up to darkness. The sun has gone down and he can hear the gentle lapping of water at the shore outside. When he blinks his eyes open, he can see the beam of the lighthouse sweeping through the fog and evening dusk, and he smiles when he hears Cas snoring softly, his mouth pressed up somewhere in the vicinity of Dean’s forehead. Dean lays there for a while, just slowly letting himself wake up, and this is the first time he’s felt truly rested in a very long time. Years maybe. Usually when he wakes up in the morning, or from a nap, he feels groggy and disoriented and heavy. But now, he only feels content, if a little sore from the multitude of orgasms he’s had today.

                When his stomach starts grumbling, he carefully extracts himself from Castiel’s arms, slipping away and tucking the blankets up around the sleeping blue eyed boy to replace the heat of Dean’s body. Cas shifts and snuffles in his sleep a little, and then stills, with the blankets pulled up to his nose and his brow furrowed, hair a mess of dark tufts on the stark white pillow. Dean stares at him for a moment, smiles, and then slips out of the bed, walking quietly over to the little kitchenette and grabbing a candy bar to sate his hunger until Cas wakes up and they can cook a proper dinner.

                He throws on a shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the floor when his skin prickles with goose bumps a bit from the chill of the evening, rubbing at his bare, exposed skin to warm it up a little. Over near the back of the room, he flicks on the heater again, and it starts chugging out hot air slowly, sputtering to life in the most undignified way.

                He glances at the clock on the way over to the little table by the window. It’s only half past seven, but it’s March, so the sun has already gone down. Which is okay – Dean doesn’t mind the dark. Not when Cas is here. He wolfs down his candy bar as he peers out the window at the calm night, the faint blare of more foghorns cutting through the mist. There are voices out there, carrying distantly, and Dean thinks it’s probably Haley, and maybe some other guests checking in to the Soggy Rose.

                He hears a groan and blankets shifting behind him, and when he glances towards the bed, Cas has rolled onto his back, the blankets sliding down to pool around his waist, leaving him bare-chested in the dim light of the room. The lamp light from the kitchenette washes over his smooth skin, and the beam from the lighthouse sweeps gently across his shadowed features on every pass.

                Dean just stares at him for a moment, thinking how fucking beautiful Cas is. How _lucky_ Dean is to have him when Dean is such a fucked up mess. It’s the first time he’s ever really felt _inspired_ to draw. Normally, drawing in Cas’s little composition notebook was just a method to distract himself, and to get out his thoughts and feelings on paper in words and pencil smudges. Now, he really just wants to capture this moment, wants to commit it to memory better than a photograph would.

                Not that Dean thinks he’s that great at drawing or anything, but sometimes he surprises himself.

                Tossing the wrapper of his candy bar in the trash, he treads silently to his duffel bag, sifting through it as quietly as he can and extracting Cas’s notebook, grabbing a pencil and carrying it over to the table near the window. He slips into the chair and winces when it creaks a little, and then flips the notebook open to a new page. He’s been drawing a lot lately, and writing in here, and basically just pouring his soul out onto these flimsy pages. It feels good – he still has no idea if he’s ever going to let Cas read this notebook, let him see these drawings, but for now, he doesn’t worry about that.

                He just draws.

                He draws Castiel, laying there on that bed, the folds of the blanket pooled around his waist, the sharp curve of his hipbone, the bars of his ribs, the shadows in the dips of his muscles. Dean draws the gentle slope of his chest, and the symmetrical cirles of his nipples, the curve of his collarbones, and the cut of his jaw where his head is resting on the pillow. He takes a long time capturing all the details of Cas’s face too, and his hair.

                By the time Dean is done drawing, his fingers are smudged with graphite and over an hour has passed. When he holds up the finished product to take a look, he smiles a little to himself, proud of what he’s done. He’ll have to color it in when he gets back to Rail Pass, where Sammy has colored pencils for him to use, but for now, this is good. Better than a photograph.

                He stares at the drawing for a while, and then stares at Cas for even longer, before sighing. He flips to a new page in the notebook and sets about drawing a picture of the lighthouse halfway masked by the fog outside. He draws the ghosts of ships sailing at the edge of the dark horizon, and the crisp edge of the water lapping at the wet sand. He even draws a picture of the Soggy Rose Motel sign illuminated a gaudy red and green outside.

                By the time his hand is sore and it’s later into the night, he’s got five new drawings in the notebook, as well as a long stream of consciousness paragraph talking about how much he wishes they could just live here in Hope, just Dean and Cas, always, because it’s perfect here.  

                With a sigh, he closes the book, tucking it away back under his clothes in his duffel bag so Cas doesn’t find it, and then grabbing for his cigarettes and lighter. When Dean goes to open the motel door, Cas groans and shifts again, and Dean glances back at him to make sure he stays asleep. Cas settles after a few seconds, and Dean carefully pulls the red painted door open, biting his lip when he thinks about what they did together against that door just yesterday.

                He slips carefully out of the room, and when he closes the door, he winces as the latch clicks a little too loud, hoping that it didn’t wake Cas up. When he’s outside, the foghorns and the water licking gently at the shore are louder, although it’s still quiet out here. He sits down on the dry sidewalk, leaning up against the side of the motel and pulling out a cigarette, lighting it up and taking a long drag. He closes his eyes as he holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling. It’s been hours since he last had a smoke, and it’s like taking a long drink of water.

                He holds the cigarette between his lips and rubs at the smudges of pencil on his hands, trying to get them off, picking at the bits of it under his short nails. When he turns his hand over to see how much graphite got on the insides of his fingers, he spots his cigarette burns out of the corner of his eye, in the dim outdoor lights of the motel. At first, he doesn’t really regard them with more than a passing glance, as he’s become accustomed to seeing them there, a constant reminder of how messed up he truly is.

                But after a moment, he sort of stops, and just stares at the cigarette burns for a while. It’s been a long time since he burned himself. At least since before he told Cas what Alastair did to him. Long before that even. The ring of cigarette burns in the shape of a heart in the middle of his arm has almost healed, just a few scabs there now. The rest of the burns are flaking and slowly transforming into angry, red scars that will fade to white in a year or two. It all feels too… _clean_.

                And just like that, suddenly the cigarette between Dean’s lips feels too heavy, and Dean’s palms are sweating and hands shaking just a bit. For a while, Dean doesn’t really know why his heart is suddenly beating faster. It’s all inexplicable.

                Until he recognizes that fingernail scratch feeling in the back of his head. It’s a familiar feeling. Only this time, it’s not laced with bad memories. It’s simply…a _craving_.

                Dean wants to burn himself.

                He really, really wants to burn himself.

                Not because he’s sad necessarily, but because he _craves_ it. Because the potential for unwanted darkness in lying in the carved out, hollow edges of his mind that he’s managed to put to temporary rest these past few days. Because burning himself is like the key to locking away all the barely-dormant thoughts that could very easily eat him alive if he let them. It doesn’t matter that he’s not sad right now. It only matters that he could be. It only matters that he’s itching for that rush of endorphins, that indescribable, focused pain of the cigarette melting his skin away.

No, Dean isn’t sad. But he still plucks the cigarette out of his mouth, and holds the glowing red hot tip over his skin. Because Maine has been perfect so far. And he doesn’t want to let those demons in his head ruin the rest of this perfect vacation. What’s one more burn, right?

                It’s actually a little pathetic how little of a fight he puts up with himself in these few seconds before he decides to burn himself. Really, it’s not a fight at all. He’s so used to this by now, so used to the pain he’s about to inflict on his own body, that it’s just routine. Not even that – it’s a hobby. That’s what this has become.

                Only, for several minutes, he just sits there, holding the cigarette like that, feeling the waves of heat rolling off of it and licking at his skin, tempting him, wanting him to press it down, burn another hole in his arm. But suddenly, he’s just frozen in place. Because _Cas’s_ voice is in the forefront of his mind, overshadowing all the darkness and the demons and the temptations. Cas’s voice is there, a vivid memory, begging Dean to stop hurting himself. Begging him not to put cigarettes out on his own skin anymore. And somewhere in the cluster, there’s Dean admitting through his tears that he can’t promise something like that, but promising that he’ll _try_. He’ll _try_ to stop hurting himself.

                And right now, is this really him _trying_? Because from where Dean’s sitting, staring down at the cigarette _so close_ to his skin, this doesn’t feel very much like trying. This feels like failing.

                He sits there for so long with that cigarette held over his arm, that a small bar of ashes forms, clinging to the tip. He has to tap them away with frustrated fingers before returning to what he was doing, holding that cigarette there, waiting for his body to cooperate with his cravings and just _press down_ already.

                He doesn’t hear the motel room door open.

                He does, however, flinch violently when a pair of bare feet appears next to him, and he glances up in alarm to see Cas standing over him, his eyes tired but suddenly so _sad_. And Dean knows why Cas looks so sad right now. He just found Dean out here, sitting with a cigarette held over his own arm, willing himself to press it down.

                Dean stares at Castiel’s face for a moment, his sorrowful, tilted eyes, and then he tears his own eyes away, looking back down at where the cigarette is hovering over his arm. And even though Cas is looking at him right now, and he’s taking a peek right behind that curtain into the very core of Dean’s pathetic weakness, Dean is frozen in place and he can’t make himself _move._

Even when Cas sighs and sits down on the sidewalk, leaning up against the wall of the motel next to Dean, Dean doesn’t move. He can see Cas looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but he can’t look away from the cigarette. He just wants to press it down, just wants to burn himself, _just one more time_. This is the last time, and then he’ll stop. That’s what he just keeps telling himself.

                And _god_ , he doesn’t even know _why_. He’s not sad right now, he’s just weak, and a slave to his own sick temptations, his own pathetic addictions.

                He jumps a little when Cas reaches over suddenly, one slender, yet _strong_ , hand appearing in Dean’s line of vision. To Dean’s confusion, though, Cas doesn’t try to take the cigarette out of Dean’s hand. Instead, Castiel wraps his whole hand around Dean’s, and starts pulling the hand, cigarette and all, away from Dean’s arm. Dean is too confused and dumbstruck to really do anything other than allow Castiel to move him, and he watches with blank eyes as Castiel sticks out his other arm.

                A pang of shock registers in Dean’s heart when Cas drags Dean’s hand with the cigarette over so that the tip is hovering above Cas’s own smooth, unmarred forearm. The glowing tip of the cigarette gets within a half an inch of Castiel’s beautiful, perfect flesh, and Dean snaps back into himself and tries to jerk his hand out of Cas’s grasp, to get the cigarette away from Cas’s forearm.

                “What the hell are you doing?” he exclaims, his hand shaking where the cigarette is hovering over Cas’s arm. Castiel just continues to hold it there, forcing Dean to get within a hair’s distance away from putting the cigarette out on Cas’s skin instead of his own. And that’s _wrong,_ so _wrong_.

                “If you need to burn someone, burn me,” Castiel says, “Don’t burn yourself.”

                “Like hell, Cas!” Dean snaps, tearing his hand away from Castiel’s arm and flicking the cigarette out into the wet sand where it fizzles and dies, “I’m not hurting you.”

                Cas’s expression crumples, and with a desperation that’s new to Dean, he reaches over and takes Dean’s scarred up and ruined forearm, dragging to towards him and cradling it tenderly, running his fingertips gently over the burns.

                He looks earnestly into Dean’s eyes and says, “This _is_ hurting me.”

                And _that_ right there…that penetrates something deep inside Dean’s psyche. His lips part a little bit, and he stares at Cas in surprise. Castiel looks at him pleadingly, and Dean can do nothing but stare back for several moments, taken aback by what Cas just said. It doesn’t make sense to him for a few seconds until he tries to imagine himself in Castiel’s place.

                What if _Cas_ were the one putting cigarettes out on his arm, and Dean was sitting helplessly on the sidelines unable to stop it? How desperate, horrible, _useless_ , would that make Dean feel? Dean can only imagine how he looks right now, out here sitting on this sidewalk in his sweatpants, cigarette smoke in a cloud around him, arm horribly mutilated. He must look like some kind of junkie, sitting here, hands shaking, trying to will himself to give in to his next fix. He must look completely broken. And Dean can’t even imagine how horrible that would make him feel if it were _Cas_  sitting here on this sidewalk trying not to burn himself instead of Dean.

                All at once, Dean understands.

                Nobody likes to see someone they care about in pain.

                And for some godforsaken reason, Cas cares about Dean. Maybe that’s enough. Maybe the care Castiel has for Dean can replace that pain-fueled endorphin rush from burning himself. Maybe Dean doesn’t _need_ to burn himself anymore, and this addiction is just a worthless, useless thing. Maybe he never had to burn himself in the first place, back in those terrible weeks after Ghost Town when his mind was a mess and he had no one to hurt except for himself.

                Maybe none of this is actually worth it. Both the squash lady and Cas have tried to tell him that before, and it’s only now that he understands, as he looks into those pleading blue eyes next to him.

                He swallows hard, and his fingers twitch with the need to hold onto something. Castiel must see the movement out of the corner of his eye, because he reaches out, scooting closer, and he wraps his arm around Dean’s shoulders. Dean leans into him, and for a few minutes, they don’t say a word. They just stare out at the dark ocean and the marble fog, at the slice of yellow from the lighthouse cutting through the night.

                Guiding lost sailors home.

                After a few minutes pass, Dean swallows again, his throat suddenly dry, and he lowers his eyes, looking down at his pack of cigarettes and his lighter lying on the concrete next to him. Castiel shifts a bit, and Dean knows he’s following his gaze, looking at the cigarettes too. It takes Dean a second, but then he licks his lips, reaching over and plucking up the pack of cigarettes from the ground, flipping the lid open and looking at the neat rows of filters inside the little box.

                He can see Cas watching him out of the corner of his eye, and Dean brings the pack of smokes up to his nose, inhaling that sickly sweet smell like cookies and berries all mashed together into little sticks of cancer. Already, he wants another one. But he doesn’t at the same time. Closing his eyes for a moment, he just lets that too-sweet smell of the cigarettes settle in his nose, and then pulls the pack away, looking down at it in his lap.

                “What are you going to do?” Castiel asks, his quiet, sleep-rough voice breaking the too-loud silence of Dean’s thoughts.

                Dean swallows again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t answer for a minute or two, just staring down at the cigarettes. These little things that have caused him so many problems, tempted him in ways he never thought he could be tempted. Not only to hurt himself, but also just to sit up on his roof back in Rail Pass and smoke pack after pack, destroying his body with poisons and toxins before his mind could do the trick anyway. They were always a way to numb it all. And _fuck_ they taste good too.

                He grits his teeth and tears his eyes away from the cigarettes, looking over at Cas. He stares at Cas for a second, and then reaches over, using a couple fingers to tilt Cas’s jaw in his direction, and he leans in to kiss him. Castiel melts into the kiss, inhaling slowly, an eager participant. Dean kisses him for a few minutes. And this is good. This is really good.

                See, Cas tastes good too. Cas tastes _really_ good.

                Dean doesn’t need cigarettes. He doesn’t need drugs. He doesn’t need to hurt himself. He doesn’t need any of it. Not when he has Cas. Not when he has this blue eyed boy here.

                And maybe that’s unhealthy, to be so unstable that you depend almost completely upon another person to be healthy and happy. But damn it, Dean’s just not there yet. He’s not strong enough yet to do this alone. Maybe one day. But not yet.

                When they break off the kiss, Dean sighs and smiles weakly at Cas. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and Castiel cocks his head to the side in that _way_ that he has.

                “For what?”

                Dean just huffs a little breath. “Everything,” he replies.

                When Castiel just looks even more confused, Dean shakes his head a little, dismissing the thought, and looks back down at the cigarettes in his hand. He hesitates for another moment or two, and then tightens his hold around the little box.

                Before his brain really catches up to what he’s doing, the little box of cigarettes has been crushed in his large fist. Castiel’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and when Dean looks over at him, a small smile is playing at the corners of his mouth.

                Dean just shrugs, holding the handful of cigarettes, all ruined in his fist. “I should really stop smoking,” he says, and it’s just about the most anticlimactic, casual way to ever say something so life-changing, but he doesn’t care.

                And Cas, equally as casual, nods a little and replies, “Whatever you feel is best.”

                Dean snorts, staring at Cas’s big blue eyes, which look sort of black in the darkness, for just a few more moments. Then, without another word, he pushes himself to his feet, shivering in the cold of the evening sea breeze, and tosses the ruined pack of cigarettes in the trash can several feet away down the sidewalk. Little flakes of tobacco leaves and chunks of filter rain out of the destroyed box as Dean dumps the thing into the trash, and then he brushes off the little bits clinging to his palm, and walks back over to where Cas is pushing himself to his feet too.

                “Do you want dinner?” Castiel asks, and Dean raises his eyebrows.

                “Is that even a question?” he asks, and Cas smiles fondly, winding his hand through Dean’s and walking them back to their motel room. Dean kicks his lighter aside and it goes skittering off the sidewalk into the sand as they walk. He won’t be needing it anymore anyway. Someone else can use it if they find it. Dean’s had about enough of fire in his lifetime.

                They slip back inside their pleasantly-warm motel room, and together the pair of them use the little two-burner stove in the kitchenette to cook up their clams and fish. It makes the whole room smell like seawater, so they open up the front door to air it out as they melt some butter they bought at the grocery store earlier to dip their clams in, settling with paper plates of food on the floor in front of the ancient TV in the corner.

                The only channel that works is a crackling one showing old black and white movies, so they settle back and watch that, laughing in their struggles to eat their slippery clams and counting how many little, clear bones they find in their slabs of fish. Castiel wins, of course, with just one more bone than Dean has.

                It’s all so surprisingly comfortable, that Dean almost forgets that they just had kind of a real _moment_ outside. He keeps waiting for that awkward tension to set in, but it never comes. Maybe Dean’s reached his quota on awkward heart-to-heart moments with Cas. Maybe now they’re not just awkward peeks at each other’s emotions anymore. Maybe now they’re just _conversations_. Like two people actually having a serious conversation. Nothing awkward about it. Just resolving things. Maybe Dean doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable about these things anymore. After all, he and Cas have had their fair share of baring their souls to each other.

                When it gets to be later in the evening, neither of them are particularly tired, since they had such a long nap this afternoon. But they close the motel door and Dean sheds his shirt so they’re both just in their sweatpants, and then they crawl back into the bed again. They lay facing each other, and Dean grabs his phone off the nightstand to send Jo a quick text, telling her to flick Sam’s ear for him, and says he hopes they’re all having fun in New York. He thinks about sending a quick text to his dad too, just to check in, but then decides against it after a few troubled moments, and flips his phone shut, setting it aside.

                Castiel studies his face for a moment. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and Dean should have known Cas would pick up on every flicker of Dean’s expression. This boy is so intuitive.

                Dean shakes his head, shuffling a little closer to Cas so that they’re sharing the same pillow and their faces are only a few inches apart. “It’s nothing,” he replies.

                Castiel stares at him for a moment, and then clucks his tongue. “Liar,” he murmurs, and Dean looks at him, and then chuckles.

                “Dick,” he shoots back, and Castiel laughs, their legs tangling together. Dean sighs, and then rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I was just wondering whether I should text my dad to check in on him. But he’s probably fine.”

                Cas cocks his head to the side as best he can with it pressed to the pillow. His brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t he be fine?” he asks, and Dean looks away, studying the wall over Cas’s shoulder, the chipped paint, the mysterious stain.

                “I, uh…he drinks sometimes,” Dean says, sort of brushing it off, “Just wanted to make sure he actually made it to his bed this time, you know?”

                The furrow in Cas’s brow deepens a little. He studies Dean’s face for a moment, until Dean’s eyes flicker back to his. Cas chews on his lip, pondering something for a second, and then pulls in a breath. “I’ve heard a few people talk about your father,” he says, and Dean’s eyebrows raise a little, although that doesn’t really surprise him.

                “Oh?” he asks, a little humor in his voice even though he’s not really feeling particularly humorous right now.

                Cas huffs a little breath. “They say your father has a reputation in our town,” he explains, “Is that true?”

                Dean’s tongue flicks out and pulls his lower lip into his mouth. He shrugs a little. “Depends on how much of that is just rumor,” he replies, dancing around the subject.

                Cas pops his eyebrows and hums a little. “But _you_ know how much of it is true,” he replies, and Dean blinks. _Good point_.

                He shrugs again, because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Well…my dad’s a drinker. That’s no secret,” he replies, “And…” Dean sort of trails off, biting his cheek again and huffing a little breath.

                Cas seems to hesitate for a moment, and then his hand reaches out and settles on the side of Dean’s face, thumb brushing over the dark bruise on Dean’s cheekbone. Dean swallows as Cas eyes the bruise with a strange mix of emotions in his eyes. “He hurts you,” Castiel surmises, and it doesn’t even sound like a question, “And Sam.”

                Dean’s eyes widen just a bit, and his brows press together. “Who told you that?”

                Cas looks away from the bruise, back into Dean’s eyes, and he huffs a humorless breath. “No one told me,” he replies, “I just have eyes.”

                Dean is confused by that for a moment, until he realizes how he must look to other people sometimes, showing up at school all bruised and cut up. All at once, he flushes bright red, lowering his gaze and biting his lip.

                “He doesn’t mean to,” he says quietly, swallowing back a little bit of anger that he doesn’t understand the reason for, “It’s only sometimes.”

                “When he’s drunk?” Castiel asks, sweeping his thumb over the bruise again, as if willing it away. Dean’s forehead creases and relaxes, and he looks back up at Castiel.

                “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he asks, and Cas shakes his head.

                “Dean, it’s not my place to tell anybody,” he replies, and then hesitates before saying, “That’s up to you. Have you ever thought about turning him in? To the police?”

                Dean shakes his head. “No,” he replies firmly, and then sighs with a little tremor, reaching up and placing his hand over Cas’s on his face, “Well…a few times when he’s gone after Sammy, I’ve thought about it. But…no. That’s not what my dad needs. He’s sick, he’s not a criminal.”

                Castiel nods a little in understanding. “You never thought about getting him help?”

                Dean huffs a little laugh. “Every damn day,” he replies, sagging into the bed, “But how am I supposed to convince my dad to go to a rehab willingly? I mean, ever since my mom died…”

                “He started drinking after her death?” Cas asks, although it’s not really a question.

                Dean nods, a little lump forming in his throat that he successfully swallows back. He’s quiet for a second before he says, “Bobby’s wife Ellen has always wanted to do something about it. We go to their house when it gets real bad, but I never let her call the cops. My dad…he’s messed up, but he doesn’t deserve to go to prison. He deserves a chance to get better, and prison will just make him worse. Mom dying was really hard on him.”

                Castiel is quiet for a second, moving his hand from Dean’s bruised cheek to the back of his head, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair. “What about teachers? Principal Roman? Have any of them ever asked you about the bruises?”

                Dean snorts. “Some of them,” he replies, “But…you know me. I got about as bad a reputation as my dad in our town. Most of them just think the bruises are from fighting.”

                Cas’s face falls a little. “That’s incredibly ignorant of them.”

                Dean looks at him, and then laughs. “You wouldn’t think so if you saw how I was before you showed up here. I was a nightmare.”

                Cas’s expression softens a little. “I don’t believe that,” he replies, “You don’t think very highly of yourself.”

                Dean chuckles a little. “Well thank you Cas. Any other breakthroughs you wanna lay on me tonight?”

                Castiel snorts and suddenly moves forward, rolling Dean onto his back and settling on top of him. He leans down and kisses Dean, tightening his hold in Dean’s hair for a moment and dipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth. Dean groans and arches up into the kiss, licking that exotic taste from Castiel’s lips. When they stop kissing a couple minutes later, Cas pulls away and looks down at him, his eyes soft and almost glowing in the dim light of the room.

                “I don’t like to see you hurt,” he says softly.

                Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just kind of snorts and says, “Thanks.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes, shaking his head just a little and tugging on Dean’s hair once before his expression softens again. “I’m not sure I like your father very much,” he adds.

                Dean laughs at that, popping his eyebrows. “Not many people do,” he points out, and Castiel shrugs, as if that was obvious.

                With a sigh, he rolls off of Dean, flopping onto his back, and they both lay there staring up at the ceiling for a moment before Dean turns his head to the side to look at Castiel. He studies his profile for a long moment before Cas eventually looks back at him, and it’s only then that Dean gulps a little, giving Cas a nervous smile.

                “What if…what if I wake up in the morning and I wanna smoke?” he asks, the nervousness of quitting smoking finally setting in. It’s not exactly an easy feat.

                Cas stares at him for a moment, pursing his lips as he thinks. Then, his eyes light up, and he slips out of the bed for a second, walking over and picking up the discarded handcuffs from the floor where he threw them earlier once he finally manages to get them off Dean’s wrists.

                Dean just watches him as Cas lays back down next to him, snapping one of the cuffs around his own wrist, and one around Dean’s, successfully securing them together.

                “There,” he says, once the cuffs are secure, “Now, if you want to smoke, you have to go through me.”

                Dean looks down at the cuffs with a raised eyebrow. “Really?” he snorts, “Are you forgetting that we almost had to call the fire department earlier to get these off of me? We’re gonna be stuck together now.”

                Cas hums and leans in, nipping at Dean’s pouty lower lip for a moment, grinning. “Well I can’t think of anyone I would rather be stuck to, so I’m not terribly worried.”

                Dean huffs a laugh. “Fair point,” he agrees.

                Cas kisses him once, gently, on the lips, and then his blue eyes flicker over to the bruise in the shape of John’s fist on Dean’s cheek. Being here in Maine, Dean had almost forgotten it was there. After a moment, Cas leans forward a little, lifting himself just enough to plant a gentle kiss right in the center of the bruise. He then proceeds to kiss the tip of Dean’s nose, and when he settles his head back on the pillow, their faces are practically touching, they’re so close together.

                It takes a long time to fall asleep, especially since neither of them are very tired. Cas falls asleep first, breath evening out and eyes slipping closed. Dean just stares at him, memorizing the angles of his face, the slight pout of his sleeping lips, the dark fan of his eyelashes. Dean commits to memory every little detail he can think of, hoping that he’ll have dreams about that face, so he never has to spend a second away from it.

                And it’s the first time, in a very, very long time that he feels like maybe, just _maybe_ , he might end up alright after all. Nothing particularly groundbreaking has happened, but somehow he feels completely open and raw, and it’s not a _bad_ thing anymore. Maybe this is how people heal. Maybe he’s going to be okay.

                Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out another awesome gifset made by camwelgrace on Tumblr for chapter 11 :)
> 
>  [Gifset for Chapter 11](http://camwelgrace.tumblr.com/post/123981151651/hautleys-bend-odocoileus-virginianus-requested)
> 
>  Also, here are some awesome photo edits/aesthetics made by castielsteenyweenyhoneybeebikini on Tumblr <3
> 
>  [Edit 1](http://castielsteenyweenyhoneybeebikini.tumblr.com/post/125246308885)
> 
>  [Edit 2](http://castielsteenyweenyhoneybeebikini.tumblr.com/post/124613934965)


	36. Eggshells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only about 6 or 7 chapters left! Getting close to the end!

The week in Maine goes by both too fast, and spectacularly slow. Castiel settles into a state of such surreal, unbelievable contentment, that he’s halfway convinced he’s dreaming the whole thing. That he’s about to wake up in his bed in his old apartment in Chicago, and the sounds of trash trucks and the chatter of the homeless in the alleyways below will tell him that Rail Pass and Hope have all just been a crazy figment of his imagination.

                Because how can Dean be real? How can _any_ of the friends Cas has made be real? And how can _Alastair_ even be real? The perfect Disney villain with only one objective: to hurt.

                So yes, Castiel thinks he’s dreaming all of this sometimes, especially how perfect this past week has been. But then a gentle touch or a brush of lips from Dean will remind him that this is all _real_. It’s all actually happening. And it’s the closest to happiness and paradise that Castiel has ever been in his short eighteen years of life.

                They spend the week exploring the small town of Hope, and trying out all the local restaurants, which all serve basically the same quality seafood and rich, home-cooked American meals. At one bar and restaurant one night deeper into the heart of the town, they participate in an eating contest against several young, local competitors. Of course, none of them have met a guy with an appetite like Dean’s, and Dean beats them without even breaking a sweat, downing over a dozen burgers in five minutes. He’s awarded with a free meal pass for one whole year at this very restaurant, and Dean grins proudly before he and Cas wander back to the Soggy Rose, where Dean promptly falls into a food coma for the rest of the night.

                There’s not much really to explore in the town, as it’s not really meant to be a tourist area, but Dean and Cas still find ways to entertain themselves. One afternoon, they climb the rocky outcrop up to the lighthouse and explore the grounds, until they get in trouble for trespassing on the lighthouse keeper’s property. Despite the cold, they go swimming one morning, diving off the dock into the ice cold waters, their lean bodies cutting through the fog into the unknown abyss of the gray sea. They stick close to the legs of the dock, making out in the water and diving for shells, until Dean feels something alive and slippery bump up against his leg under the water, and freaks out, scrambling out of the water in record time.

                In addition to the hours of exploring they do, and shopping around at the little local stores, they also have a lot of sex. Like, _a lot_ of sex. Both of them are entirely insatiable. And even though they’re both in a constant state of mild, pleasant soreness from the roughness of their too-frequent activities, they still ignore the tenderness and fuck each other at every available opportunity. Cas loses count of how many times they have sex during the whole week. They use two whole bottles of the lube, and have to go out shopping for more condoms.

                They even have sex on the beach once, at that little hidden spot near the tide pools, muffling their moans against each other’s lips and skin, sinking into the loose sand until they’ve carved a divot out just for the two of them. Cas also very nearly fucks Dean in the bathroom of a local restaurant, but with three fingers buried to the hilt in Dean’s ass and his hand over Dean’s mouth to keep his moans quiet, another customer had walked into the restroom and gone into the stall beside them, taking a shit that had successfully killed the mood.

                Public sex never really ends up as successful as it’s portrayed in the movies apparently.

                For the most part, it’s absolute heaven. Even the day towards the middle of the week that they spend lounging around the motel room, occasionally having lazy sex with each other, watching old black and white movies on the TV while they pig out on some of the groceries they’ve bought, is a perfect day. The weather never gets better – it’s still foggy on a near constant basis, and on more than one afternoon, it rains heavily. Foghorns are a consistent blare from the distance out at sea, but Cas finds the guttural sound of them relaxing almost. It reminds him of living on the coast when he was younger. Those weren’t all bad memories.

                Despite Dean’s insistence that he’s doing okay, Castiel can still tell that he’s having a hard time with quitting smoking. Cas goes out early one morning when Dean is still sleeping, and buys Dean a giant bag of lollipops to suck on every time he has a craving for a cigarette. While Dean grumbles that he doesn’t really need them, he still kisses Castiel in thanks, and for a few days, he almost always has a sucker in his mouth, unless he’s having sex with Cas, or eating something else.

                It’s weird, kissing Dean and not tasting that earthy tang of cigarettes on his tongue. Castiel likes it though, because Dean constantly tastes like lollipops now, and Castiel chases the flavor with his own tongue, kissing Dean greedily. But he almost misses the smoky flavor of tobacco that had so quickly become the _way_ Dean tasted. Dean always tasted like that, even if he hadn’t smoked for hours. But now, since Dean hasn’t smoked in a few days, Cas is beginning to discover how much of that smoky flavor didn’t belong to the cigarettes, but rather just to Dean himself. Under the flavor of the candy, Dean still tastes like the distant scent of a campfire, and thunderclouds, and moss. He still tastes completely foreign and perfect, and while Cas misses the smell and the flavor of the cigarettes, he could really get used to this new Dean. This _healthier_ Dean.

                Even now, Dean’s skin is glowing just a little brighter, and though he’s weary and has headaches from the withdrawals, he seems to be able to move easier, and even _breathe_ easier. And Cas won’t admit it out loud, but Dean’s come tastes even better than it did before when he was a smoker. It tastes sweeter somehow, more tangy, and one afternoon when Castiel is feeling particularly sadistic, he holds Dean down and sucks him off three times in a row, until Dean is a sobbing mess and Castiel has swallowed enough of his sweet spend to cause Cas to come himself, completely untouched, cock twitching in midair and shooting his load all over the bedspread.

                All in all, it’s just about the best spring break Castiel has ever had in his life.

                On Friday morning, Dean and Castiel find themselves sitting together on the edge of the pier, looking out at the silver sunrise shining dull like a nickel on fire through the sheets of fog. Skeletons of ships peek through the gloom, and the bells from the harbor provide a peaceful background noise to the otherwise quiet early morning. Cas is propped up against one of the posts at the end of the pier, and Dean is leaning up against his chest, head tilted back onto Castiel’s shoulder, both of them still tired since it’s so early in the morning. They haven’t even had breakfast yet.

                Cas keeps switching from looking out at the calm, rising sun, to looking at Dean’s face just inches beside his own. The bruise on Dean’s cheek, which Castiel now knows for certain is from Dean’s own father, has faded to a dull, sickly greenish-yellow, but it’s better than the angry red-black it was before. Dean has a lollipop in his mouth, just sitting there tucked in his cheek. The mornings are the hardest for him. His routine for several years has been to get up in the morning and smoke a cigarette to start off his day. It’s hard now to wake up and not be able to do that, which Dean reluctantly admitted yesterday morning as he stuffed handfuls of lollipops into his pocket to carry around with him throughout the day, hands shaking a little from nicotine withdrawals.

                Castiel is so proud of Dean. Not just for quitting smoking, but for everything. Dean is so strong. He’s overcome so much. And even in the face of an abusive father, and a deceased mother, and a horrible menace like Alastair, Dean has come out on top, making himself a better person day by day. Cas truly admires him for that, and sometimes wishes he could be just as strong. Cas's problems, at least to him, are miniscule compared to Dean’s, but he still has things in his life that he has yet to grow the balls to face up to. His parents, his nightmares, his state of mind. All of it. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

                But at least he has Dean. That much he can say. Dean is like a rock to cling onto in a hurricane, something for Cas to anchor himself with. Dean’s strength inspires Castiel to find his own strength, and as he sits here on the pier looking at Dean’s gorgeous face, green eyes shining bright in the silver morning sun, Cas can’t help but smile a little, just like he always does when he looks at this gorgeous boy.

                The corner of Dean’s mouth tilts up into a little lazy smile, and without even turning his eyes away from the rising sun, he says in a quiet, sleep-rough voice, “You’re staring again.”

                Cas snorts a little, tilting his head and placing a gentle kiss on the edge of Dean’s jaw. “I know,” he replies, and Dean nudges Castiel’s stomach with one elbow, snickering.

                “How’d I end up with such a huge sap? I swear,” he mutters, but snuggles closer into Castiel’s chest, sighing with what can only be contentment. His voice is a little slurred from his lollipop still in his mouth, but he just ignores it, the smell of artificial grapes floating under Castiel’s nose.

                Cas huffs a small laugh, wrapping his arm around Dean’s stomach and plucking lightly at his shirt, fiddling with the end of it. He’s quiet for a moment, and then his forehead creases in confusion as something occurs to him. “Dean?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

                “Hm?” Dean grunts, blinking slowly.

                Cas hesitates, and then asks, “Are we boyfriends?”

                Dean pauses, and then finally turns his head so he’s looking up at Cas’s face. He barks a little laugh when he sees the genuine confusion in Castiel’s eyes. “You want to be?” he asks, and Cas smiles a little, huffing a small breath.   

                “Yes,” he admits, “But…only if you want to.” He thinks to himself that  _boyfriends_ seems like such a small word for what he and Dean are. 

                Dean snorts a little, studying Cas’s face for another long moment. Then, popping his eyebrows, he reaches up and plucks the lollipop out of his mouth, smacking his lips and grinning up at Cas.

                “Castiel Winchester, will you be my boyfriend?” he asks teasingly.

                Cas successfully represses the shiver that wants to roll its way up his spine at the sound of Dean calling him _Castiel Winchester_. It has a nice ring to it, actually, but hell if it doesn’t make Cas’s heart beat a thousand times faster in a split second.

                He smiles a little wider than he means to down at Dean, and then tilts Dean’s chin up with his knuckle, kissing him deeply. Dean chuckles a little against his lips, and when they pull away, he asks, “Is that a yes?”

                Cas nods. “Yes,” he replies, laughing a little, “It would be an honor to be your boyfriend Dean.”

                Dean snorts, popping his eyebrows and settling his head back against Cas’s shoulder again, popping his sucker back in his mouth. “Good,” he replies, “I wasn’t gonna take no for an answer.”

                Castiel chuckles a little, and buries his nose in Dean’s hair, inhaling the clean scent of the motel shampoo before resting his cheek against Dean’s temple and staring out at the sunrise.

                They only stay on the pier for as long as it takes Dean’s stomach to growl and ruin the moment, and then they stand up, rubbing their numb asses from the hard wood and walking hand in hand to the closest restaurant they can find, sitting down for a nice, relaxing breakfast and discussing what they can do for the rest of the day. Castiel suggests swimming, but Dean promptly shoots that idea down, because he _doesn’t want to get fondled by the Loch Ness Monster again_ , as he puts it.

                They end up deciding to just go back to their room at the Soggy Rose and hang out there for a little bit until they decide what to do next. It might just end up being one of those days where they lay around the motel watching TV and fucking all day again, but they will need to make a supply run if that’s the case.

                When they walk into their room, it’s around midmorning, and Dean flops back onto the bed, kicking his shoes off and making himself comfortable while Cas turns on the TV and crawls onto the bed next to him, both of them getting situated in the mess of blankets and pillows that they haven’t fixed from waking up this morning.

                It takes only a few minutes before Dean’s phone beeps where it’s laying on the nightstand beside the bed, and Dean glances over at it in confusion, before smacking at it a few times to grab it. Out of the corner of Cas’s eye, he sees Dean squint at the phone, and then flip it open, punching a few buttons and scrolling through a couple screens. Castiel doesn’t really pay attention to what he’s doing, just lays there with his head pillowed on one of Dean’s arms, watching the old crackling screen of the TV.

                Dean clicks on something and holds his phone to his ear, listening to what Castiel assumes is a voicemail. He can hear the muffled sound of someone’s voice from the message on the phone, but Cas can’t make out the words.

                A half a minute passes, and then suddenly Dean sits up abruptly, dislodging Cas’s head from his arm as he listens to the message. Cas’s eyebrows press together and he sits up as well, staring at Dean’s suddenly confused and alarmed expression. When the message ends, Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and clicks through, selecting another message and listening to the next one.

                “What’s wrong?” Castiel asks, and Dean holds up a finger for a moment, listening to the rest of the voicemail.

                When he pulls the phone away from his ear again, he looks a little pale, and he scrolls through a list of missed calls on his phone.

                “Dean?” Cas asks, eyeing the little phone in his hands.

                Dean scratches the back of his head in confusion, and then pushes himself up from the bed. “Hang on, I gotta make a phone call,” he says, and Castiel just sits there and watches him as Dean dials a number and then holds the phone to his ear once more, pacing slowly, his brow furrowed.

                The movie is still playing on the TV, but Castiel isn’t even paying attention to it anymore. It’s just background noise.

                “Sammy? Hey, what the hell man? What’s going on?” Dean suddenly says, and Castiel perks up, listening to the muffled sound of Sam speaking on the other end for a few minutes.

                “You found what?” Dean asks, and again comes Sam’s muffled voice.

                Castiel only catches one side of the conversation, and mostly it just leaves him confused. Sam sounds a little urgent over the phone, and the longer the conversation goes on, the more spooked Dean looks, until Castiel actually gets up from the bed and walks over to him, taking Dean’s hand and brushing his thumb over Dean’s knuckles. Dean swallows as he listens to Sam, looking at Castiel with suddenly-wounded eyes. Cas cocks his head to the side, giving Dean a questioning look, but Dean just gulps and shakes his head.

                “Did you call the cops?” Dean asks, and again there’s more muffled speaking. Cas grows more confused when Dean says, “Take pictures of it.” and “Why’re you back from New York so early?” and “Where’s dad? Is he okay?”

                By the time the call ends almost ten minutes later, Dean is shaking a little, and he flips his phone closed, gritting his teeth, a little bulge forming on the side of his jaw.

                “Dean, what happened?” Castiel asks, squeezing his hand, and Dean glances at him, looking equal parts angry, scared, sick, and numb. He swallows and shakes his head a little, pulling away from Castiel and beginning to gather up his belongings that are strewn all over the floor.

                “We have to go back to Rail Pass,” he says, and Castiel’s eyebrows press together in confusion.

                “Now? Why? Dean, what’s wrong?” he asks, and Dean throws a handful of clothing into his open duffel bag on the floor, with a little more force than necessary, before stopping and sighing heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.

                “Alastair,” he says after a second, barely choking out the name through gritted teeth, “It has to be him.”

                Castiel feels his blood run cold and boil all at once at even the mere mention of the name. “What did he do?”

                Dean shakes his head a little, turning back around and looking up at Cas. He looks a little lost for a second, and then rubs at his forehead. “He, uh…Sam came home early from New York because of some art dealer that Bobby had a short notice meeting with or something, and when Sammy got home, someone had trashed our house.”

                Castiel’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling. “What do you mean?”

                Dean runs his hand through his hair, his jaw stiff. “I don’t know…just, a few broken windows. Some spray paint. Eggs and toilet paper. That’s all I got.”

                Castiel pulls in a breath, anger and disbelief pooling in his veins. “Oh god, Dean, I’m so sorry,” he says, “You think it was Alastair?”

                Dean huffs an angry breath. “Well who else would it be? I got no beef with anyone else in our town. At least not enough that they would go and do something like this.”

                Cas lowers his eyes for a moment, his thoughts whirling. “And your father? Is he alright?”

                Dean rubs one hand down his face. “Sammy didn’t know. He hadn’t seen him yet. They just got back from New York today, and Sam’s been trying to reach me all morning.”

                Castiel studies him for a long moment, and he realizes Dean’s hands are shaking a little bit. Cas doesn’t think it’s all because of nicotine withdrawal, and he steps forward, taking both of Dean’s hands in his and squeezing them gently. “Okay, let’s just calm down for a second and get our heads on straight,” he says, trying to soothe Dean even though Castiel himself is starting to grow massively angry again. How much more can Alastair fucking do to them both? _Why_ is he even doing this?

                “We gotta go home, Cas,” Dean says, breathing out a heavy sigh and closing his eyes for a second. Castiel leans forward and touches his forehead to Dean’s.

                “Okay,” he says, “We can go home.”

 

*       *       *

 

                It takes them less than an hour to pack up all their things, check out of the Soggy Rose, say goodbye to Haley, and walk together to the truck stop on the edge of Hope, Maine. While they walk, Castiel looks around at this beautiful town, at the shops and the restaurants and the beach, and he knows he’s going to miss it. They were only here for a week, but he’s really going to miss it. Maybe they can come back one day.

                Dean is angry, and shaking a little, and has gone pale. And Castiel understands. Alastair is the source of so many problems, so many nightmares, in Dean’s life, especially these past few months. Dean has every right to be upset, even if they don’t actually know for sure that it was Alastair who vandalized Dean’s house. It seems like the only explanation that makes sense though. The police still haven’t found and arrested Alastair for assaulting Castiel. Al could be anywhere, doing anything. And he’s probably out for revenge, however immature and pathetic this form of revenge is.

                And just like that, their beautiful vacation is over.

                When they get to the truck stop, Castiel sort of hopes to see Garth hanging around somewhere with his big rig, ready to give them a ride back to Rail Pass. But of course, Garth isn’t there. Why would he be? He’s probably halfway across the country by now, making other deliveries, picking up other groups of hitchhiking teenagers, making friends.

                Dean manages to convince a crusty old trucker to give them a free ride to Stowe in Vermont, and Castiel eyes the man with trepidation as they climb into the cab of his truck. This man is nothing like Garth. He’s quiet, smells like moth balls and sweat, and he stares a little too much at Castiel. Dean forces himself to stay awake for several hours of the long ride ahead, and Castiel is grateful for that. This truck driver gives him the creeps, and even though Cas is nervous, he still sits in the middle seat, keeping Dean as far from the man as possible.

                The truck ride seems to last for _years_ , even though it’s only around nine hours. They don’t stop for the whole way, and the entire drive, the trucker barely says two words. Cas thinks maybe he’s just overreacting a bit, getting nervous about a man who is simply a guy just trying to make a living. But when they’re about an hour away from Stowe, the driver gets just a little _too_ touchy with his hand on Castiel’s leg, and Dean about tears his throat out, snapping at him to pull over, and the two of them climb out of the big rig and are left walking down the side of the highway at sunset, the truck disappearing into the distance.

                “Are you okay?” Dean asks, and Castiel huffs a nervous laugh, rubbing at his thigh where the trucker touched him, nodding.

                “I’m fine,” he says, wanting nothing more than to take a long, hot shower, “Let’s just keep going.”

                Dean cups his face and kisses him chastely for a moment, before smoothing his hair back and giving him a reassuring smile. “Come on,” he says softly and they start walking down the side of the road.

                They walk for almost an hour, hand in hand, both of them starving, holding out their thumbs to passing cars, but no one slows down to give them a ride. At a rest stop they come across, Dean manages to persuade a reluctant young mother with two children in her car to give he and Cas a ride to Stowe, where she’s headed anyway. He pays her twenty bucks for gas, and she finally agrees after some coaxing. They squeeze into the small car, Dean stuck in the back with the kids and Castiel in the passenger seat in front with the woman.

                The drive is only about thirty minutes, but in that small span of time, Dean manages to get both the kids in the back laughing and playing games with him, and manages to charm the young mother so much, that she eventually relaxes and has some pleasant conversations with them both. Once she decides they’re not actually a couple of serial killers she’s picked up randomly at a rest stop on the highway, that is.

                She drops them both off at the bus station in Stowe, and by the time they get there, it’s dark. Dean kisses the back of her hand in thanks, and she blushes and drives away, the little kids waving out the back window as she leaves. Castiel rolls his eyes.

                “How do you do it?” he asks in wonder, and Dean glances at him.

                “Do what?” he replies innocently.

                Cas snorts. “Have everyone wrapped around your finger like that?”

                Dean looks at him and huffs a small laugh, coming forward and winding his arms around Castiel’s neck, planting a wet kiss on his lips. “Natural talent,” he replies cockily, and Castiel laughs. For a little while, they forget about why they’re heading back to Rail Pass early in the first place.

                They buy a couple tickets for a bus heading to Rail Pass in an hour, and then both of them grab some food from the snack bar and sit on the floor under the bright fluorescent lights of the bus station, eating and talking, exhausted from the day of travel. It’s close to nine at night by the time the bus pulls up, and for this hour long ride, Dean _does_ fall asleep, his head pillowed on Cas’s shoulder, mouth open as he snores there in the most undignified manner.

                Castiel stares out at the trees and the cars passing by, barely able to see out the windows of the bus into the dark nighttime. He’s actually sort of scared to be going back to Rail Pass, after such a beautiful week in Maine. He’s scared that the feeling of happiness and comfort will fade, and be replaced by the old feeling of fear and worry and anger that generally clings to him with every passing day.

                It’s not that he lives in a constant state of sadness and terror. It’s just that he’s grown used to living life always on his toes, never letting himself get comfortable, because he knows that he’ll have to move away soon, or that there’s a bully waiting for him around some corner, or that there are actually people like Alastair who exist. He’s never felt as purely comfortable and content as he felt this week in Hope, Maine. He’s never felt like he could just kick back and relax all day with someone he loves and not have a worry in the world.

                Dean makes him feel so many things that he never thought he was capable of feeling. And that in _itself_ is not messing with his head necessarily. It’s everything _else_ that’s messing with his head. Everything outside of Dean is spiraling out of control, and he’s powerless to stop it.

                But then…maybe it’s just his imagination. Maybe this is all just his own head making him believe these things. Maybe everything truly _is_ going to be okay. Even if Dean’s house got vandalized, and Cas might be going crazy.

                It’s a little after ten by the time they make it to Rail Pass, and Cas shakes Dean awake gently. The two of them grab their bags, and step off the bus, both reeking of moth balls from the cab of the truck earlier, and in desperate need of showers. It takes only about twenty minutes to walk from the bus station in Rail Pass to Dean’s house, and when they get there, the light of the half moon above and the streetlamp in front of Dean’s house provide just enough of a glow to see the damage done to the Winchester home.

                The front living room window has a hole in it that could only have been caused by a large rock, or perhaps a brick. The cheap paint on the front door is chipped, but thankfully the door itself remains intact. The yard is littered with toilet paper, ribbons of it draped over the ratty bushes and unkempt gardens and grass in front of their home. Cas’s mouth falls open a bit of its own accord when he sees the extent of the damage. When he takes a step forward, his shoe crushes an eggshell laying in the gutter on the street, and when he looks closer, he sees dozens of other eggshells littering the grass, and shiny, sticky rivulets of yolk dripping down the bricks of Dean’s house.

                It’s a _disaster_.

                All at once, Castiel understands why Sam sounded so frantic on the phone. Coming home to this isn’t something he would wish upon anyone. And he’s instantly convinced that no one but Alastair and his cronies could be responsible for such a horrible act. Or maybe Alastair did this alone. Cas wouldn’t put it past him.

                It takes him a minute to get his wits about him, and then he tears his eyes away from the damage and looks over at Dean. Dean is standing there with a frighteningly blank look in his eyes, jaw clenched, staring up at his house, body frozen in place.

                Cas swallows and steps up next to him, taking his hand gently and snapping Dean out of his daze. “Come on,” he says, keeping his voice low, “Let’s just go inside. We’ll figure it out, one step at a time, okay?”

                Dean grips Castiel’s hand tightly for a moment, and then seems to force himself to let go, looking away from the house and into Cas’s eyes. “You should go home,” he says, his voice stiff and cold, “If my dad’s here, he’s gonna be mad.”

                Castiel feels a sort of sick twist in his stomach, and his eyes flicker to the bruise on Dean’s cheek briefly. When Dean isn’t running away from Alastair, he’s hiding from his father. Is there nowhere safe in the world for this boy? It breaks Cas’s heart.

                “All the more reason for me to stay,” Cas says firmly, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m not leaving.”

                Dean stares at him for a moment, his eyes a little watery, and he looks like he’s about to protest. But Castiel just shakes his head, and weaves his hand through Dean’s again, and Dean blinks, looking down at their hands connected between them. With a hard sigh, Dean closes his eyes for a second, and then swallows, nodding a little.

                “Okay,” he says quietly, “Just…stay behind me, okay?”

                Castiel nods, and together they turn reluctantly towards the battered house again. Dean leads Cas across the lawn to the front door, their shoes crunching over eggshells and getting tangled in mounds of toilet paper as they go. There are little rocks littering the ground around the edges of the house, and Castiel assesses the damage done to the front door and the other windows that aren’t shattered. Alastair must have thrown dozens of rocks, in addition to the eggs and paper, intent on doing the most damage. It reminds Cas of the day Alastair and the other Cancers threw rocks at him at school, and Al lit his coat on fire. He shivers and grips Dean’s hand tighter, earning him a curious glance from Dean as he steps up and opens his front door.

                The door is unlocked, but Dean doesn’t seem terribly surprised by that. Cas follows on Dean’s heels as they step into the front hallway. The living room is to their left, and when Cas glances in that direction, there’s broken glass glittering in the darkness on the carpet, reflecting the light of the streetlamp and the moon outside. Near the couch, there’s a square-looking mound, and when Dean walks over to it and toes it with his boot, they discover that it’s a brick. Castiel squints at it for a moment, spotting some writing on the side, and when he steps over and picks it up, his blood runs cold.

                The word **_FAG_** is scribbled on the red rock in black marker, bold and hateful. When Cas glances at Dean, Dean’s eyes are cold, but he’s shaking a little, because both of them know that it was Alastair who did this. Alastair, who for some unknown reason, presumes that Dean belongs to him. Alastair, who is angry because Dean won’t give himself over to his own rapist. Alastair, who is so obsessed with the idea of control that he’s gone and nearly destroyed two lives already, probably more.

                Cas feels goose bumps prickle on his skin as he looks down at the brick. _Fag_. That one little word, and it reminds him so much of the night Alastair and his friends dragged him out to that train car at Ghost Town and nearly killed him. Cas wonders if those other boys were in on this too. He recalls how many times they called him this very word, spitting it hatefully into his face as they landed punch after punch. Why do they care so much? Why does Alastair continue to do this?

                Dean reaches out and takes the brick out of Cas’s hand, setting it down on the table near the couch. When Cas looks at him, Dean is eyeing him with a surprising amount of concern, and it’s only when Dean lifts a hand and thumbs at the tears rolling slowly down Cas’s cheeks that Castiel realizes he’s crying. Just a little, a few silent tears dripping down the sides of his face. He sniffs and reaches up with his own hand, wiping at his eyes.

                “Sorry,” he says quietly, and Dean shakes his head, leaning in and kissing him gently.

                “Don’t say sorry,” he replies, running his thumb over the back of Cas’s hand where their hands are still weaved together. Cas gives him a weak smile, and Dean nods his head towards the hallway.

                “Come on,” he whispers, pulling Castiel towards the inside of the house more.

                Dean flips on the light in the hallway, to give them something to see by. Castiel blinks in the sudden brightness, and follows blindly as Dean leads him towards the kitchen. Cas nearly crashes into Dean when Dean suddenly stops abruptly in the doorway to the kitchen, staring into the shadows. When Cas peeks around him, he sees a large figure sitting at the flimsy kitchen table in the dark. The only light to see by is from the hallway, and the moon outside. Cas can barely make out the half-empty bottle sitting on the table in front of the figure, and for a moment, his grows terrified because he thinks it’s Alastair. But this person is too big to be Alastair.

                “Dad?” Dean asks, after a moment’s pause, and Cas stiffens all over again, staring at this man he’s heard so much, yet so little, about.

                The man raises his head, stares at Dean for a second, and then lifts the bottle to his lips, taking a long swig. The sound of the alcohol sloshing in the glass bottle seems overly loud in the dead silence of the house.

                “The hell’ve you been?” the man asks, and Castiel gets goose bumps again. He now knows where Dean gets his deep voice from. His father’s voice is deeper than Dean’s, and slurred a little around the edges with what Cas assumes is drunkenness. _My god_ , is this what Dean comes home to every night? Is this his life?

                “Maine, sir,” Dean answers honestly, and then hesitates before saying, “It’s spring break.”

                Dean’s father is silent for a moment, and he shifts a little in his seat. The hallway lights catch on his eyes and make them glitter a little in the darkness. Castiel watches his brow furrow just slightly, and he blinks a few times. “Who th’fuck is that?” he asks suddenly, raising his voice a little, and Castiel’s eyes widen just a bit because he knows he’s been spotted.

                Dean swallows and glances back at Cas, hesitating and then pulling him out from behind himself, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Dad, this is Cas. Castiel,” he replies, “I told you about Cas, remember?”

                Dean’s father stares at Castiel for several long moments, and Cas thinks maybe the fact that he seems to be drunk right now is delaying his reactions just a bit. He still squirms under the scrutiny though, but Dean remains perfectly stiff beside him, his back a little straighter, chin a little higher, like a soldier. It makes Cas a little uneasy, to see Dean like this, when normally Dean is so casual and laid back and goofy.

                “Cas,” Dean’s father eventually says, like he’s rolling the name around on his tongue. He’s quiet for another moment, and then pulls in a breath and snaps, “Well _Cas_ , Dean? Mind tellin’ me just what the hell happened t’my house?”

                Cas jumps a little at the man’s suddenly louder voice, but Dean remains where he is, frozen and staring at his father.

                “We don’t know,” Dean says, voice sounding a little cold.

                Dean’s father scoffs at the table, and Cas leans back a little as the man shoves himself unsteadily to his feet, taking another swig from his bottle. Dean moves next to him, and Cas watches as he reaches over and flips what looks like a light switch on the wall near the doorway. Nothing happens. Dean flips the switch up and down a few times, but the kitchen remains dark. When Castiel lets his eyes wander a bit, he sees that the front window of the kitchen has a large hole in it too, and it’s the first time he notices the glass littering the cheap linoleum floor.

                Dean’s father’s shoes crunch over the shards as he takes a few swaying steps towards them. “Light’s broken,” he says gruffly, nodding towards a fixture above the table. All that remains of it are a few pieces of glass and a hole where the bulb used to be.

                “Dad, where’s Sammy?” Dean asks, taking a couple involuntary steps back as his father gets closer to them. The light from the hallway finally washes over Dean’s father’s face, and Castiel gets a look at the man for the first time.

                “How th’hell should I know?” his father replies, barely-controlled anger in his voice, “You’re th’one who shipped him off to god-knows-where without fuckin’ asking me.”

                Dean swallows. “He’s back,” he replies, his voice surprisingly calm for how intimidating his father is. Although, Castiel supposes Dean is used to this, whereas this is the first time Cas has ever met the man.

                “Well that’s good to fuckin’ know,” the man growls, and Castiel flinches as he shoves past the both of them, storming off down the hall, “Now clean this shit up. And get th’hell outta my house.”

                Castiel stares after him as Dean’s father heads down the hallway and into one of the last rooms. The door slams and then it’s nothing but silence. Both he and Dean stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, and then Dean sighs and Castiel looks over at him. Dean looks resigned, and almost…relieved. Maybe he was expecting it to go a lot worse than that. Cas wonders if maybe Dean’s father is keeping his anger in check since Cas is here. If that’s the case, then Cas never wants to leave Dean here alone in this house ever again.

                Dean licks his lips, and when Castiel squeezes his hand gently, he looks over at Cas, looking infinitely more exhausted than he did before. They look at each other for a second, and then Dean gulps and pulls Castiel down the hallway to his bedroom.

                “If Sammy isn’t here, he must be at Bobby’s,” Dean says, as if nothing just happened, “I just wanna change, and then we can go over there.”

                Castiel just stares at him as Dean lets go of his hand and drops his duffel bag on his mattress. Dean seems surprisingly unaffected by the conversation they just had with his father.

                “Is…” Castiel asks, and then hesitates, lowering his voice, “Is he always like that?”

                Dean glances over at him in the darkness of the room. Cas sees his silhouette shrug just a bit. “Compared to some other choice evenings we’ve had here, that was actually pretty mild,” Dean admits, pulling his shirt off.

                Cas wants to say something more, but before he has a chance to, Dean’s boot suddenly crunches over something on the floor, and both of them look down. When Dean takes a step back to see what he’s standing on, his other foot lands on something else.

                “What the hell?” Dean mutters to himself, and without even having to be asked, Cas reaches over at a glance from Dean and flips on the light next to Dean’s door.

                He thought he had reached his quota of surprises tonight, but he was wrong. A wave of sickness washes over him as the light flickers on in the room, shining over more broken glass on the floor. Dean’s window has a large hole in it, just like the kitchen and living room windows. There’s a rock laying in the middle of the floor, and Castiel is the first to spot the word carved into Dean’s wall over his bed.

                **_SLUT_**      

                Bold, deep grooves in the wood of Dean’s wall, and the carvings remind Castiel so much of the names carved into the wall of the train car out at Ghost Town. Cas just stares at the word for a long few moments, feeling both fear and _rage_ start to boil over inside him. Dean stares at the word too, frozen stiff for almost a full minute.

                If either of them needed any more confirmation that it was Alastair behind this vandalism, this would be it. This right here. That word carved into the wall, the deliberate damage done to Dean’s room.

                Castiel wants this bastard dead. He wants him dead _yesterday_. He’s never felt so much hate for a single human being. And he wouldn’t even call Alastair a human. He’s just…sick.

                Castiel jumps when Dean suddenly surges forward, after being frozen in one spot for so long just staring at his wall. Before Cas comprehends what’s happening, Dean’s boot smashes through the wall, right through the word **_SLUT_** carved there. It takes a few kicks to smash a hole big enough in the drywall for the word to be completely erased, but even when it disappears, Dean still continues to kick the wall.

                Castiel drops his bag on the floor and runs forward, grabbing onto Dean’s arms and pulling him away before he hurts himself or does more damage than he needs to. Dean jerks in his grasp, shouting something incoherently, and Castiel wraps his arms tightly around Dean’s shoulders, holding onto him from behind until he calms down.

                “Dean, stop. It’s okay, it’s gone, you can stop,” he says, and Dean fights his hold for only a couple more seconds, before abruptly sagging, breathing hard, his whole body vibrating with tremors that remind Cas of the night Dean told him what happened at Ghost Town. Cas holds onto him tightly, his own eyes watering a little bit – not with sadness, but with anger. He’s never wished murder to be legal until now. He’s never wanted revenge as badly as he does right now.

                “Why is this happening?” Dean whispers, breathing hard, sounding both angry and broken, and Castiel doesn’t have a good answer for him, so he just closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the back of Dean’s neck, holding him as he continues to shake.

                “Dean! What th’hell is goin' on out there!” his father’s drunken voice suddenly shouts, bedroom door slamming open down the hall as his father is summoned by the commotion.

                Dean lifts his head, and Castiel lets go of him as he runs over and closes his bedroom door, locking it before his father can enter. Still in only his jeans, shirt discarded somewhere on the glass-covered floor, Dean grabs his and Castiel’s duffel bags in one hand, and Cas’s hand in the other, and pulls him towards the broken window.

                “Where are we going?” Cas asks, jumping when Dean’s bedroom doorknob starts to rattle, and Dean’s father bangs on the other side.

                “Bobby’s,” Dean says, his voice still a little shaky. Cas watches as Dean throws the window open, tossing their bags out, and then jumping out himself. Cas slides out the window after him, much less eloquently. Dean seems to have a lot more experience with this.

                Once they’re both outside in the little overgrown garden, Castiel trips and Dean steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. They scoop up their bags from the ground, and Dean grabs his hand, both of them running off down the street together, their feet crunching over eggshells and dead grass, little tufts of fresher green grass beginning to peak through as spring sets in.

                They don’t run for long. Dean slows them to a walk when they reach the end of the street, and Castiel immediately pulls him to a halt, turning him so they’re facing each other and placing his hand on the side of Dean’s face.

                “Are you alright?” Cas asks, and Dean stands there catching his breath for a moment, still trembling a little. He shakes his head just a bit and tries to pull Cas along to keep them going again.

                “We should really get to Bobby’s,” he says, but Cas tugs him to a halt once more.

                “Dean,” he insists, “Just, stop for a second. Please. Tell me you’re okay.”

                Dean grits his teeth, letting out a hard sigh. He looks at Cas in the darkness, stares at him for a few seconds, and then his eyes slip closed. With his free hand, bag looped over his bare shoulder, he reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his eyes tiredly. And Castiel understands. It’s been a long day of traveling, and for Dean to come home to _that_ is just…overwhelming.

                “I want a fucking cigarette,” he growls, and Castiel’s heart clenches. All this, and that’s what Dean thinks about right now. It makes sense, but it still hurts something inside of Cas. His face crumples with sympathy, and he leans forward, pulling Dean’s hand away from his face and locking lips with him gently. Dean doesn’t really respond at first, but after a few seconds, he pulls in a shaky breath, and kisses Castiel back.

                They stand there kissing in the dark for a minute or two, until Castiel feels the shaking in Dean’s arms fade away to less. He’s still trembling a little when they finally break apart, but it’s an improvement to what it was before. Castiel places his hand on the side of Dean’s neck, brushing his thumb over Dean’s pulse point, as if checking his vitals, making sure he’s calm enough. Dean seems to be okay, if a little shaken, which is understandable.

                They stand there for a few minutes in silence, just breathing and calming down, and Castiel successfully swallows back all the rage he feels towards Alastair for now, replacing it with concern that he feels for Dean. Dean isn’t exactly in a very good mental state, even now after so much healing. And things like the vandalism Alastair did to his house are major setbacks.

                Dean very suddenly reaches forward, winding his arms around Castiel in an uncharacteristic hug. Cas hugs him back after a few moments of confusion, and Dean buries his face in Cas’s shoulder, inhaling slowly, like he’s smelling Castiel’s clothes. Cas imagines he doesn’t smell very nice – like moth balls and the grime of today’s travels – but he doesn’t say anything. Just holds Dean back, Dean’s bare torso overly warm in the chill of the March night.

                It’s not like Dean hasn’t hugged him before. They’ve hugged quite a lot, actually. But not like this. This is different. This feels like Dean is hanging off the edge of a cliff, and Castiel is the only thing keeping him from losing his grip on that edge and falling. And who knows? Maybe Cas really is.

                So he hugs Dean back, tightly, and he inhales the spicy scent of his skin, and he just waits until Dean has had his fill, waits until Dean is ready to walk again.

                When that time finally comes, Dean’s eyes look weary, and he looks about twenty years older than he actually is, exhausted and frail. But they still weave their hands together and continue walking down the street again in silence, carrying their duffel bags and reeking of public transportation and highway fumes. They pass by Hautley’s Bend on the way to Bobby’s house across town, and Castiel stares at the creaky swings and the merry go round and the slide, and the little spot on the sidewalk where he and Dean first kissed.

                God, so much has happened since Christmas. So much has happened since Cas _moved_ here.

                They make it to Bobby’s house a little after eleven, and Bobby almost looks like he was expecting them. Before they go inside, Dean opens his duffel bag and quickly pulls on a long-sleeved shirt to hide his cigarette burns on his arm, casting a strange look towards Cas, like he's ashamed, before they walk up to the front door. Like Dean figured, Sam is there, and he comes running up, throwing him arms around Dean when he sees him, clinging to him for a moment before pulling himself together. Dean puts on a strong face for the Singers and Sam. Castiel watches that mask slip into place, and Dean smiles and kisses Ellen and Jo on the cheek, and hugs Bobby.

                Castiel finally gets to meet Ellen, and she’s as warm and blunt as Cas expected, just like Jo. Even though it’s late, they’re all still awake, like they were waiting for Dean, and Ellen whips them up some food to eat. Sam fills Dean in on what’s happened since he called them in Maine this morning. It seems like years ago that they were in Maine, but it was only just this morning. Cas finds it a little unreal that they’re already back in Rail Pass.

                Sam says he called the police when he discovered the vandalism at their house. Bobby helped him when the police came, and although they filed a report and the cops said they’d look into it, both Sam and Dean suspect that they won’t take it too seriously, on account of all the drunken disorderly charges John Winchester has under his belt. This isn’t the first time, after all, that the police have been called to the Winchester house, according to Dean. Usually it’s because of John shouting, and breaking things. The police probably assume that, in a drunken rage, John did the damage to their house himself.

                Castiel can tell that this frustrates Dean a lot, but there’s really nothing more they can do about it. Alastair is still wanted by the cops – they have to catch up to him eventually, right? Al can’t stay hidden forever. And if he’s close enough to Rail Pass to be able to do the damage he did on Dean’s house like that, it can’t be that long before he’s finally caught and locked away where he belongs.

                At one point, Castiel steps out to make a quick call to Missouri, just to check in and see how Anna is doing. It’s nice to hear that Anna is so happy there, and she even insists that she doesn’t want to leave Missouri’s once Castiel comes back. Without revealing too much about the vandalism at Dean’s house, Castiel manages to get Anna to tell him that everything is perfectly normal there, and that their house is untouched and empty. Cas doesn’t doubt that Alastair might have tried something at Castiel’s house, but he doesn’t even think Al knows where he lives, which is a relief.

                Around midnight, everyone sort of breaks apart and shuffles off to bed. The Singers only have one guest bedroom, but the bed is big enough for Dean, Sam, and Cas to all share it. Sam slips between the sheets and is out like a light in an instant, and Dean and Cas head into the bathroom to shower. They take their time scrubbing away the sour smells of the road from their skin, washing each other’s hair and faces and eventually working themselves into a better enough mood to getting into a tickle fight that Castiel promptly wins.

                Even though Cas can tell that Dean is weary and shaken by what’s happened at his house, he’s glad that Dean is handling it so bravely. When they climb into bed together, Sam snoring into his pillow on the other side, Cas spoons himself up behind Dean, hugging him close to his chest, and Dean holds onto his arms tightly, hanging onto the edge of that cliff again, wanting nothing more than to keep from going over.

                Cas falls asleep with his nose buried in Dean’s hair, and a helpless anger brewing low in the carefully-ignored corners of his gut.

 

*       *       *

 

                The next morning, Dean farewells Castiel with a long, lingering kiss on the front porch of the Singer’s house, only breaking apart when Jo whistles at them from the living room window. Once Cas has disappeared around the corner down the street towards his own house, Dean heads back inside and helps Ellen clean up the dishes from the brunch she and Bobby made for all of them earlier, and then he gathers up his duffel bag and loops his arm around Sam’s shoulders, and together, they head off down the street towards their own broken home.

                John isn’t there when they arrive around noon, thank god, and Dean sends Sammy to his room to unpack his suitcase from New York while Dean starts cleaning up the mess of shattered glass in the living room and kitchen. Before Sam can see it, Dean takes the brick with **_FAG_** written on it outside, and carries it across the street to the neighbor’s trash barrels on the curb, burying it under a couple smelly bags of garbage so no one sees it.

                When he turns back around and gets a look at his house for the first time in the light of day, the damage looks even worse than it did last night. There’s a mild putrid smell wafting from the dozens of broken eggs on the lawn and the walls of the house, and the chips and dents from the multitude of rocks thrown are much more obvious with the sun hitting them. Dean feels a little sick, and sighs wearily as he stares at all the work that needs to be done.

                Running a hand through his hair, he walks back towards his front door, boots crunching over eggshells as he kicks aside rocks and toilet paper and glass. Without hesitating, Dean steps inside the house and heads down the hall to his room, grabbing his headphones and turning up some _Metallica_ as loud as it will go, blasting it right into his ears. He thinks maybe the music will help him fight back the near-overwhelming urge to put out several dozen cigarettes all over his body. Maybe if he was allowed to burn himself, he might feel a little cleaner, a little better about all this.

                But he made a promise in Hope. He made a promise not to do that anymore. So he elects to destroy his eardrums instead.

                Dean sets to work in the front yard first, using a rake to scrape up as much of the eggshells and paper as he can from the dead lawn. He has to borrow an ancient-looking lawn mower from the squash lady next door to pulverize the rest. The lawn mower is covered in dust, and sputters a few times when Dean turns it on. This thing hasn’t been used in years. Thankfully, though, Dean has a brief conversation with the squash lady and her charming madness lifts his spirits a little bit. Talking to her further solidifies his determination to not give in and burn himself today. He just needs to make it through today without hurting himself. And then tomorrow. And then the next day.

                It takes Dean about ten minutes to mow the tiny dead lawn, picking up what he can of the trash littering it. After he returns the squash lady’s mower to her, Sam appears in the front door of the house, looking a little weary himself, holding a bucket of soapy water that’s leaking a little from a crack in the bottom, and a couple scrub brushes. Dean quirks a small smile at him in thanks, and together the two of them set about scrubbing down the walls of the house, trying to get as much of the egg remnants off of there as possible.

                While Sam is busy near the kitchen window, Dean rounds the side of the house and goes up to his own bedroom window near the backyard, where there are more eggshells and broken glass. He picks up the shells back there and then scrubs down the wall outside his window so that he’s not smelling sulfur fumes every time he sleeps. When he gets to the bricks beneath his window, he spots a few droplets of dark liquid on the wooden sill, and it takes him a second of squinting to realize it’s blood.

                Without even knowing why, he recoils a little, despite the fact that it’s just a few drops of blood. When he looks closer, there are a couple more little drips of it near the shattered edges of the glass.

                Alastair’s blood.

                All at once, phantom pains explode across Dean’s scars, so sudden and powerful that he actually has to hunch over and breathe through it, despite the fact that it’s all psychological. He thought he was healing. He really thought that. He thought he was _finally_ getting past what happened at Ghost Town. But this right here proves to him that he’s still got a long road ahead of him. The way he clings to the side of the house for support, suddenly feeling like he’s going to vomit up all the brunch from earlier. The air around him feels stiflingly hot, yet too cold all at the same time, and a bead of icy sweat drips down Dean’s temple and across his cheek like a tear.

                He’s not entirely sure it _isn’t_ a tear, to be honest.

                That’s Alastair’s blood. _That’s Al’s blood_. Right there, on his window. He knows it is. He’s surprised it isn’t black. He’s surprised how human it looks.

                Dean can taste the phantom metallic flavor of Alastair’s blood in his mouth, can feel his teeth sinking into the bitter muscle of Alastair’s tongue. Suddenly, what happened months ago feels like it’s happening all over again right now.

                Before he can stop himself, he reaches his shaking hand out and starts scrubbing furiously at the blood on the broken window, the bristles of the brush catching on the edges. He switches and scrubs at the blood on the window sill, but it’s already staining the wood, so he goes back to trying to get it off the glass. He just needs it _gone_.

                The brush slips at one point, and his hand goes through the hole in the window. The edge of the glass catches on the inside of Dean’s wrist, and he hisses in pain as it carves a shallow gash into his skin. Yanking his hand away from the window, he looks down at his wrist, blood beginning to bead slowly from the wound.

                Even though it wasn’t on purpose (it wasn’t on purpose, right?), the pain still grounds Dean a little bit, and he stares at the blood leaking from his skin for a few moments before closing his eyes and pressing his thumbnail into the wound, gritting his teeth and fighting through the pain, waiting for that calming endorphin rush.

                When it comes, it’s not as powerful as it has been in the past, but it gets the job done. He slumps against the side of the house and takes deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, until his hands are only shaking from nicotine withdrawal and not from bad memories.

                One of his headphones has fallen out of his ear in the turmoil, and that’s the only reason he hears Sammy’s footsteps coming towards him. Dean opens his eyes and quickly pulls his thumb away from the wound, cradling his bleeding wrist instead and looking up at his brother.

                “Oh god, Dean, are you okay? You’re bleeding,” Sammy says, alarmed, dropping his scrub brush and coming up to examine the wound. Dean is thankful that it’s on the opposite arm to all his cigarette burns.

                He swallows and tries to stop the spinning in his head. “I’m fine Sammy,” he replies, blinking a few times and clenching his muscles to try and stop shaking, “Just caught it on the edge of the glass. It’s not deep.”

                Sam cradles Dean’s wrist for a moment, turning it this way and that and wincing in sympathy as he watches fresh blood bubble up from the slice. “Come on, we should clean it up before it gets infected,” Sam says, pulling Dean along, “The front yard is done. I can clean up out here if you wanna start inside.”

                Dean just nods numbly, letting his brother tow him along. They slip into the bathroom and Dean sits there silently and lets Sam take his time cleaning the gash on his wrist. Dean just stares at the wound as the blood slowly clots. Sam dabs hydrogen peroxide onto it with a cotton ball, glancing at Dean’s face sympathetically because he knows that this stuff burns. But Dean doesn’t even flinch, just stares as the liquid fizzes in the fresh wound, cleaning it out. The sting is good. It’s more pain that he can focus on instead of the nagging, lingering essence of Alastair clinging to the walls of this house like a disease.

                When Sam has finally finished dabbing about a hundred different ointments onto the cut and has secured a heavy duty Band-Aid onto it, Dean is feeling suddenly very exhausted. Sam studies his face for a moment and then snaps his fingers a few times in the line of Dean’s unfocused vision.

                “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, and Dean blinks, looking up at his brother from where he’s sitting down on the toilet seat.

                He licks his lips, shaking his head a little, and tries to snap out of it. “I’m fine,” he replies, clearing his throat, “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

                Sam doesn’t look like he believes him, but Dean just pushes himself to his feet, ruffling Sam’s shaggy hair and thanking him for “playing doctor”. They both head out and start cleaning up all the damage again. Dean turns up his music as loud as it goes, as if that will drown out the feeling of _Alastair_ clinging to the guts of this house. Al has only been here once in the past, and it was a long time ago, years before Dean knew what a sick fuck he is.

                But now, Al has been here again. And for some reason, the house feels ruined because of that. Not only did Alastair throw things and ruin the outside, but he broke into _Dean’s room_ , and carved the word **_SLUT_** into the wall. Almost like he wanted Dean to _know_ that Al was the one behind this. Dean tries to ignore the vivid images in his head of Alastair laying on his mattress, jerking off into his sheets, opening his drawers and rifling through his clothing. He’s not sure how insane Al truly is, but he honestly wouldn’t be surprised by anything at this point.

                Swallowing back bile and the desperate urge to vomit, Dean drops what he’s doing for a moment and abruptly walks back to his bedroom, stripping the bedding off his mattress and taking all of his clothing out of his drawers, throwing it all in the washing machine and starting a load of laundry. He’s not taking any chances. He wants everything _clean_. He wants Alastair’s filth to be _gone_. He needs it out of this house.

                Alastair has violated Dean’s body, and now he’s violated Dean’s home. Nowhere feels safe right now.

                Nowhere is _clean_.

                Dean and Sam spend nearly the entire day cleaning up the damage to the house, scrubbing down every room, even the ones where no damage was done, and Dean listens absently while Sam spins theories as to who could be behind this vandalism. His best guess is that it could be someone from John's work that their father pissed off or something, but Dean knows the truth. He knows who it really was.

                But he grits his teeth and says nothing. They clean the bathroom, the hall, the kitchen, the living room, the closets, their bedrooms, everywhere. The only room they don’t touch is John’s.

                By the time they’re done, the house smells like Pine Sol and Windex, and it’s cleaner than it’s been since before Mary Winchester died. Dean doesn’t even think this house has been cleaned really since The Accident. Maybe mopping up a spill here and there, or doing a load of laundry. But some of the balls of dust in the backs of the closets, and the grime clinging to the baseboards, has been there since Dean was in the hospital covered in burns. The lint embedded in the carpets of the closet could very possibly be from a load of laundry Mary Winchester did in the year before her death. It’s a little surreal.

                The lingering feeling of Alastair still clings to the innards of the house even after they finish though, and Dean shivers and sticks close to Sam as they prepare something to eat for dinner. He doesn’t want to be alone in his own bedroom, where the feeling of Al is strongest, so he follows Sam to his room, and while Sam goes over homework he has to turn in on Monday, Dean lays out on his stomach on Sam’s bed and uses his colored pencils to fill in drawings in Castiel’s notebook that he made of Hope, Maine, and the lighthouse, and Castiel sleeping in the motel bed at the Soggy Rose.

                When he finishes, he doesn’t feel much better, so he sets about creating new drawings, of demons and angels and creatures he doesn’t even have a name for. They’re disconcertingly dark, but he tucks his arm around the side of the notebook to keep Sam from seeing them, and Dean just lets his mind lead him. By the time he’s done, he has several new drawings, and a few pages of writing, and even though he still kind of wants to burn himself, and desperately, _desperately_ wants a cigarette, he feels a bit better.

                Eventually, Sam crawls into the bed to go to sleep for the night, and despite the fact that John isn’t here right now and there’s really no reason for Dean to stay with Sam, he still closes Cas’s notebook and tosses it on the floor next to the bed, and then stuffs a pillow between he and Sam, blowing out Sam’s candles and switching off his lamp to go to sleep. For a long while, Dean stares up at the glowing stars and moons and planets on Sam’s ceiling, carefully keeping his mind blank. He counts Sam’s breaths, every inhale and exhale, to occupy his brain so he doesn’t think about other things.

                And when he finally sleeps, he dreams of fire. And blood. And blue eyes. And skin.

                And Dean thinks how accurately such contradictions represent his life. He wonders if it will ever change. If it will ever get better.

 

*       *       *

 

                On Sunday night, the last day of spring break, Castiel rushes to complete the homework he's been neglecting to do all week. He spent the whole day with Dean, hanging out at Hautley's Bend and exploring the woods a bit, although far away from Ghost Town. Dean is becoming, or has already _become_ , an addiction to Castiel. Every moment he's not with him, Castiel only craves to have Dean by his side again. Maybe it's unhealthy, but Cas doesn't care. He's too invested in this boy, too invested in the smell and taste and beauty of Dean Winchester, to give him up.

                And although Cas fears for the future - fears that one day, Dean will be gone, and Castiel will be alone again - he can't stop his stupid, stubborn heart from all but belonging to Dean. No matter how broken it may end up.

                He's sitting at his kitchen table now, cell phone next to him, sending the occasional text back and forth with Dean and Charlie while he focuses on completing his homework for the week. He's actually looking forward to school tomorrow, despite the fact that it means spring break will be over. And for the most part, this spring break was perfect, as long as he doesn't pay attention to the last few days, and all the turmoil with Dean's house being vandalized.

                He's deep in concentration, reading about some medieval battle and a royal being executed with molten gold, when his phone buzzes beside him. He ignores it for a few moments, thinking it's just a text from Dean or Charlie that he'll answer when he's done reading. But the phone keeps vibrating, and he realizes he's getting a call. Without looking away from his reading, he slaps at his phone, picking it up and flipping it open, pressing it to his ear.

                "Hello?" he asks.

                He expects Dean or Gabe or the fucking queen of England on the other line, more than he expects the voice that speaks instead.

                "Castiel?"

                Cas stiffens a little, tearing his eyes away from his textbook and staring across the kitchen blankly, his brow furrowing.

                "Dad?" he asks.

                "Yes," Bart replies, sounding a bit distracted, "Could you go check in my bedroom for some papers I may have left behind last week? I'm missing some work documents and thought they might be there."

                Castiel sits there for a moment, blinking, his brain taking a second to catch up. He doesn't think his father has ever called him before.

                When he's quiet for too long, Bartholomew clears his throat. "Castiel, are you listening to me?"

                The sharpness of Bart's voice snaps Cas out of his momentary stupor, and he utters a small ineloquent sound.

                "Um...yes," he replies, "Yeah, I'll...check."

                Bart sighs heavily on the other line, with what can only be impatience, and Castiel hesitates for another moment before pushing himself up from his chair, heading down the hall to the guest bedroom/his parent's room. He's stiff when he opens the door, and takes a brief glance around. There are hardly any belongings in here, and everything is in it's place, the same as it looked when they first moved in and Castiel unpacked all of their furniture.

                "There's nothing here," he says, after checking under the bed as a last resort, pushing himself back to his feet and brushing dust off of his knees.

                Bart sighs again, sounding a little irritated. "Alright," he replies distractedly, "Talk to you later. Goodbye Castiel."

                Cas feels a little pang of _something_ in his chest. He's not sure how to identify the feeling. Curiosity? Longing? Anger? Whatever it is, it makes him spit out the words, "Dad, wait," before Bartholomew can hang up the phone.

                He's quiet for a few moments, until he realizes he never heard the line go dead, and Bart is still there, his breath even but audible. He's waiting for Castiel to speak, but Cas doesn't really know what he wants to say. He glances around, as if the answer will be somewhere in his parent's barely-touched bedroom.

                When he's been quiet for too long, Bartholomew finally speaks. "Castiel, I'm very busy. What is it?"

                Cas hears a thump from upstairs - Anna in her bedroom. Music starts up, faint and leaking through the floorboards. It reminds Castiel of the night Bart told them they were moving to South Dakota last week, when Anna was so upset and channeled her anger into deafening pop music.

                With a swallow, Castiel blurts the first question on the tip of his tongue. And honestly it's the question he's been wondering about for a week now. "Why did you decide to let us stay in Rail Pass?" he asks, and then pulls in a breath, holding it. He's sort of playing with fire right now - pushing his luck. Just a little push could be enough to make Bart change his mind again, and decide once more that they'll be moving away.

                "What do you mean?" Bartholomew asks, and Castiel nearly rolls his eyes at the playing-dumb act. He _would_ have rolled his eyes, but it's so ingrained in his psyche to not disrespect his parents, that even if Bart can't see him, he still thinks that he might get in trouble for the small display of attitude.

                Instead, he asks, "What changed your mind? Nothing in the past has ever changed your mind before about making us move."

                Bartholomew is quiet for several drawn out seconds on the other end, and Castiel even pulls the phone away from his ear to check and see if his father has hung up, but he's still there.

                When Bart finally speaks, Cas almost wishes he hadn't asked, because he was having a somewhat pleasant evening, as far as evenings go.

                "You know..." his father begins, and already his tone is laced in disapproval. Castiel tenses for what's about to come next, mentally preparing himself, "When I became a father, I always expected to be proud of a son I raised."

                Castiel wants to say _you didn't raise me, I raised myself_ , but he bites his tongue, swallowing back the words and his newfound rebellion, and instead utters, "Okay," ineloquently, because he can't think of anything else to say.

                Bart sighs again, almost dramatically. "I never expected to be so thoroughly disappointed," he says in a cold voice. He sounds so utterly disinterested that it takes a few moments for the words to even sink in for Castiel. And when they do, it doesn't feel like a punch in the gut like it did the first time he heard those words, but it still doesn't feel _good_.

                Before he can say anything in reply, Bartholomew continues. "I want to say it's all your fault that you've chosen to live such a sinful lifestyle, Castiel, but unfortunately, I'm not sure that's the case."

                A flare of anger blooms in Castiel's chest as understanding begins to set in. _That's_ what this is all about? Castiel being gay? What does that have to do with anything?

                He wants to hang up the phone, wants to just end this conversation right now, because even though it's only the second conversation they've had about Castiel's sexuality, he's already exhausted of the subject. Never in a million years will he convince his parents that he's anything more than a sinful mutant, so why even bother with this back and forth little game?

                But he doesn't hang up on his father. Because as much as he's utterly done with this conversation that's barely even started, he doesn't want to anger Bartholomew and cause him to change his mind about moving them away from Rail Pass. So instead, he decides to play dumb, and asks, "What do you mean?" after a few long moments of pause.

                Bartholomew sighs, and Cas can almost see the stiff set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. The disappointment. That in itself, he can _hear_ in the tone of his father's voice. "I may be partially to blame for your choices, and frankly Castiel, as much as you've disappointed me as a father and as a man," he says, pausing as if pulling himself together, sounding every bit like an automated car commercial as he tries to sound like a human being, "I would rather not see your sister turn out the way you did."

                Castiel stands there in the middle of the bedroom, blinking. As much as it stings to hear all this, he still doesn't understand what this has to do with Bart deciding for them not to move. He can't find the words to say though, so he remains silent, just waiting for his dad to continue.

                When Bart does, the tone of his voice is the same. Flat, emotionless, and yet still disappointed sounding. How can this man sound both robotic and disappointed all at the same time? It's truly a talent. "So I've decided to do things differently when it comes to your sister, to ensure that she will not turn to the same lifestyle you have chosen," Bart says, "She will remain in Vermont for the time being instead of moving like you did as a child. And all I can hope is that one day, she will end up better off than you have."

                Castiel is quiet for a long moment, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that those last words have effectively concluded Bartholomew's speech. Cas sways a little where he stands, and ends up lowering himself so he's sitting on his parent's bed. It's stiff, and smells of starch. Barely used. Like a hotel bed.

                Cas tries to sift through what he's just heard, tuck away his frayed self-worth for a few moments to get to the core of what his father is trying to say. It sort of makes sense now. Bartholomew blames himself and Naomi for Castiel turning out gay. In an effort not to have Anna turn out the same way, Bart has decided to keep her in a more stable home environment, in one place, unlike the way Castiel's childhood was.

                He's a disappointed father. So what's new? If it weren't Castiel being gay, it would be Castiel's grades. And if it weren't Castiel's grades, it would be his clothing. And if it weren't Castiel's clothing, it would be his haircut. Bartholomew would always find something to be disappointed in - it doesn't matter what Castiel does. He's just gone and given his father a _reason_.

                And maybe that's okay.

                Not that it feels very good to hear, but maybe it's okay.

                He swallows, and licks his lips, and he can hear his father still breathing on the other line. He doesn't really know what to say, but he really doesn't want to continue this conversation any longer. So he swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, and lubricates his dry mouth before saying, in a flat voice, "I have to go now. I have homework."

                Bartholomew sighs on the other end _again_ , and then starts to say, "Stay out of trouble Ca-"

                Castiel hangs up the phone, cutting off his father's words.

                He sits on the end of his parent's bed for a very long time. So long in fact that his thighs cramp a little, because his muscles are so stiff. After a countless number of minutes, Anna's music upstairs turns off, and a few moments later, Anna shouts from the top of the stairs that she's going to bed.

                Her voice snaps Cas out of his mild daze, and he swallows again, managing to utter a small, "Alright, sleep well," and then listening to Anna's footsteps head back to her room for the night.

                Cas latches onto the sound of Anna's door closing upstairs to pull himself out of his stupor. It's kind of shocking how numb he feels inside all of the sudden, like he's swallowed a bunch of ice. With stiff movements, he pushes himself to his feet and walks out of his parent's bedroom, back down the hall to the kitchen.

                He stands over the table and stares at his homework for a few minutes, but he's a little too distracted to even attempt to continue working on it right now.

                Why does he feel this way all of the sudden? It's not like this is the first time Bartholomew or Naomi have expressed their disappointment in something Cas has done. Even when he was stabbed in Little Rock, they were disappointed in his choice to take the dangerous route home from school, even though it was the route he took home every day.

                But maybe...all that disappointment in the past was different somehow. Back then, and all through Cas's life, his parents have shown disappointment for Castiel's actions. Things Cas has done, or that have been done to him.

                This time, tonight, Bartholomew hadn't expressed disappointment for something Cas has done, though. This time, he is disappointed in who Castiel _is_. The disappointment isn't directed towards something outside of Castiel. It's directed _at_ Castiel.

                Bartholomew is ashamed of who Castiel is as a _person_. He's disappointed in what Castiel has become as a _whole_. This is personal.

                Sure, maybe something good came out of accidentally coming out to his father. They don't have to move away from Rail Pass, and that's a miracle within itself. But suddenly, Castiel feels truly and utterly disowned, despite the fact that Bartholomew never actually stated explicitly that he's disowning Castiel at all.

                Somehow it was just implied. Castiel got the message. And _fuck,_ he figured he'd be ready to hear those words when they inevitably came out of either one of his parent's mouths. But Castiel forgot. He forgot what it was like to be ignored and unwanted, ever since he came here to Rail Pass. And he really wasn't prepared for that rejection now.

                He doesn't even realize he's moving until he's walked out the front door of the house and is halfway across the lawn to Missouri's next door. When he knocks, Missouri answers in a bathrobe, tea in hand, the TV on in her living room, and she looks confused. But she takes one glance at the lost, bleary look on Castiel's face, and she welcomes him in with open arms.

                For an unknown amount of time, Castiel just talks with her, about everything and nothing, sitting on her claw foot couch in her living room, beneath the rabbit's feet and beside the crystals. Missouri brings him tea, and rubs his back, and without even knowing why, Castiel cries.

                They're not talking about anything particularly important. Just Dean, and Maine, and school, and deer. But Castiel still cries. Because when he looks into Missouri's eyes, he sees something he's never seen before.

                An adult who is proud of who Castiel is.

                Missouri knows nearly everything about Castiel, and she still looks at him like he's going to be president someday. She still looks at him like he can cure cancer, and land shuttles on Venus, and win the Nobel Peace Prize.

                When Castiel leaves hours later, well past midnight, the numbness from earlier is blanketed in a soft layer of warmth and good feelings that he can't yet comprehend. Missouri seems to just understand, and her gentleness is something Castiel tries to cling to as he walks back to his own house and gives up on the rest of his homework that he hasn't completed, packing it up and heading upstairs to go to bed.

                He's done crying, and he feels better after spending so long talking with Missouri, but he still doesn't think he can sleep right now. So instead, he flips his phone open and calls Dean. When Dean picks up, he sounds like he was already sleeping and Cas apologizes for waking him. Dean asks him if everything is okay, and Castiel is quiet for a few moments before he asks, in a small voice, if Dean will tell him a story so Cas can fall asleep.

                Dean laughs on the other end, but doesn't question it, and in a tired and husky voice, starts twisting a tale of dragons and treasure and pirates and dinosaurs and just about every creature under the sun that could possibly be in a story. The tale is ridiculous and makes no sense, but Castiel still closes his eyes, smiling a little and letting the sound of Dean's voice soothe him to a restless sleep.

                Before Dean can even finish the story, both of them fall asleep, still on the phone with each other, snoring into the receivers, almost like they're right next to each other in bed.


	37. Home Is Not A Place, It's People

                A week after the phone call with his father, Castiel receives another call. This time it’s from Naomi, and before he even answers the ringing phone in his hand, he already knows, in a nutshell, what she’s going to say. For the most part, the conversation goes exactly how he expects. She informs him that she spoke briefly with Bartholomew, and although they’re not exactly on pleasant terms after Naomi’s adultery and their divorce, Bart thought it was an important enough issue to let Castiel’s mother know that Cas is going to hell for the things he does with boys.

                Castiel doesn’t really think it’d be necessary to point out that it’s just _boy_. One. Singular. _One_ boy. Dean is the only one, and will forever be the only one. Castiel isn’t some homosexual whore. He isn’t a mutant. He’s just…in love.

                But that doesn’t matter, not to his parents. The phone call with his mother, while less cold and machine-like than the call with his father, is still filled with many disappointed sighs, clipped scoldings, a certain underlying disgust, and more than one offer and/or threat for Castiel to be sent away to a rehabilitation camp for young adult males suffering from the same _sickness_.

                When Castiel informs his mother, in a quiet, somewhat reserved voice, that he hasn’t caught a case of the _homosexual plague_ , and that he was just made this way, Naomi states that she and Castiel’s father have agreed that, after Cas graduates from high school in a little over a month, he is to move out of the house immediately, and is only welcome to return if he reforms his sinful ways, because they don't want that sort of behavior to influence the way Anna grows up. 

                Castiel politely waits for his mother to finish effectively kicking him out of the house over the phone, and then without another word, simply hangs up, leaves his cell phone on his nightstand, and walks blindly all the way over to Dean’s house. Thankfully, Dean’s father isn’t there when Castiel arrives, and while Sam works on homework in his bedroom, Dean and Cas go to Dean’s bedroom and lay on his little mattress practically nose to nose, and just talk.

                Castiel feels so much more _alive_ when he talks to Dean that he does when he talks to his parents.

                He feels so much more _human_.

                And that’s how he knows that he’s made the right decision. The decision to try and dismiss the way his parent’s disownment and disapproval have somehow made him feel completely worthless deep down in his very core. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way after learning how easy it is to make his parents not love him. How _very_ easy it is to be unloved by the people who brought you into this world.

                But the thing is…while Castiel’s parents may have brought him into this world, and given him a roof (or twenty-eight) to sleep under, Dean is the one _keeping_ Cas in this world. Castiel thinks, with his mind the way it is, haunted and shredded and completely foreign to him, that he might not have made it to eighteen without Dean.

                And that _scares_ him.

                Is he really so close to that edge in his mind, that he would have tipped over and fallen to an almost unavoidable death without Dean here by his side all this time? Is this what a lifetime of bullies and neglectful parents and isolation gets you? Is this why Castiel has nightmares about Nathan Hautley? Is this why Castiel sometimes feels so completely full of everything that he feels nothing at all?

                As he lays on Dean’s bed, nose to nose with this beautiful broken boy, he stares into Dean’s green eyes, and he wonders…maybe he and Dean aren’t so different after all. They both have different demons, yes. But maybe they’re both just so utterly fucked up that they’re irreparable when they’re alone. Maybe they found each other at a time when their shattered minds were two halves of some unbelievable whole, and in a time when both of them would have fallen apart at the seams like a couple of straw-filled voodoo dolls, they instead grabbed onto each other and rode out the storm with eyes tightly closed and faces turned away from the reality of their problems.

                Maybe Castiel is truly, utterly damaged. Maybe he’s not as strong as he thought. Maybe that’s what his mind has been trying to tell him all along.

                Maybe being disowned by his parents and kicked out of his home is just the cherry on top of this whole insane life Cas has been living.

                He lays in Dean’s bed now and tells him all of this. Cas tells Dean about the phone call he just received from Naomi, and how Castiel has a little over a month before he’s going to be homeless. He tells Dean that his adulterous mother and absent father don’t approve of him because Castiel is gay, and in God’s eyes, being gay is worse than being unfaithful to your partner and invisible to your children. He tells Dean that he feels utterly shredded inside, and he doesn’t even know why. He thinks it might have to do with bearing the disapproval of everyone around him all his life, only to turn around and find that same disapproval coming from his parents too. From the very people who are supposed to love him the most.

                When Castiel has poured out his entire soul, talking more than he’s ever talked before, laying on his side on Dean’s flimsy mattress in his room, Dean says nothing in reply. He doesn’t need to say anything, really. The look in his eyes says it all. Castiel’s pain is Dean’s pain, same as Dean’s pain is Castiel’s. They’re one in the same.

                Dean reaches his hand up and places it on the side of Castiel’s face, runs his thumb over Cas’s bottom lip, and just stares at him, giving him a little smile. It’s reassuring. When Castiel looks into Dean’s eyes, he doesn’t just see the boy he loves. He sees _home_. Just like he sees home in Missouri’s eyes, and Anna’s, and Gabe’s, and Charlie’s, and everyone who has ever taken the time to acknowledge that Castiel exists and that his existence means something.

                As Cas lays here and stares at Dean, his entire soul floating somewhere outside his body, exposed to the world like a severed nerve, he feels miraculously better. There’s a fine, silken warmth draping itself over the painful, bleeding wounds inside him, over the hurt and the sadness, and for a while, he can forget that these feelings exist, that they’re inside him and they’re probably going to be there for a while, festering like a splinter.

                He imagines little tangled spaghetti-like strings of arteries connecting his heart to Dean’s, right here, between them on this bed. Dean’s blood is pumping straight out of his heart and into Castiel’s body, cycling through, flowing and churning, and then passing back through Dean’s. They’re the same. They’re the same person, and yet so terrifically different, and it feels so surreal.

                An angry, hurt, tough-as-nails small town boy, and a broken, mysterious, half-way insane boy from everywhere, somehow found each other and became this _being_ together. This barely-standing, flawed, fucked up _being_.

                That’s what he and Dean are. They’re so fabulously broken, but they’ve somehow found a way to take all those shattered fragments of themselves and stick them together again with duct tape and glue and chewed up bubble gum from the bottoms of their shoes.

                Castiel is only one human. He doesn’t know how much more he can _take_. But he _does_ know that Dean’s going to be there, through it all. He believes that – he knows it for fact. Even if Castiel’s parents have disowned him, Dean is here to stay.

                And maybe that all that Cas needs. Maybe that’s all he needs to be happy.

 

*       *       *

 

                For the whole next week, Dean notices Castiel is acting a little dazed. He also notices that Cas goes to see Cara Roberts every single day after school. And that’s good. If that’s what Cas needs, then Dean is all for that.

                He knows everything that happened between Castiel and his parents, and Dean knows firsthand what it’s like to have a broken family. So he gets it. He understands why Cas is acting the way he is. He knows why Cas is taking this so hard. But he just tries to be there for Castiel, all throughout this next week. Tries to help him figure out what he’s going to do after graduation when he’ll be forced to move out of his parent’s house.

                As hard as it is to see Cas suffering, see him struggling to make sense of the utter toilet his life has become, Dean has faith. It's something he's never had before, but he has faith in Cas. He _believes_ that Cas will be okay. That he'll make it through this in one piece. If Cas was strong enough to carry Dean through Dean's own problems, then he's strong enough to lean on Dean when Dean offers that help in return.

                By the end of that week, it's nearing the end of March, and the first tender caresses of spring are brushing along the branches of the trees in the forest, shaking off their winter frost and encouraging fresh new leaves to bud. The weather's getting warmer, although it still has that humid, nipping bite as it rides the tail end of the snowy season, transitioning slowly into birds and flowers and too-green grass.

                Friday night is the much-anticipated spring dance at the high school, and although Dean originally wasn’t planning on going, he thought it might help boost Castiel’s spirits a bit, get his mind off of all their issues for a while. So one night, when they were laying sweaty and sated, naked in each other’s arms in Castiel’s bed, Dean had asked Castiel to go to the dance with him, an invitation which Cas had accepted with a grin and about a dozen more long drawn-out kisses before they’d finally fallen asleep with gentle smiles on their faces.

                Now, Dean is standing in his own bedroom on Friday night, with only a couple hours before he has to go over to Castiel’s to meet up with all their friends for dinner before the dance, and he can’t figure out what to wear. What do people even wear to formal dances? The nicest clothes Dean has are dark jeans and button-ups, and the pamphlets for the dance had specifically stated that jeans are not allowed.

                So Dean is standing in his boxers, trying on different shirts instead. He’ll figure out the pants problem later. At this point, he’s not even trying to match the theme of the dance (something to do with oceans or mermaids or some stupid shit like that), he’s just trying to look halfway presentable.

                Staring at himself in the mirror, one button-up shirt halfway closed  over his chest, and three more draped over his arm, he lets out an exasperated sigh and trudges out of his bedroom, down the hall to Sam’s room. Sam in is there at his desk, all finished with his homework and just drawing things now, crappy country music playing out of his little clock radio. Dean rolls his eyes at the twangy music and peeks over Sam’s shoulder to make sure his drawings don’t contain any blood and gore before sighing again and flopping back on Sam’s bed.

                “Sammy, I know you’re only a runt, but do you know what the hell people are supposed to wear to formal events?” Dean asks, fiddling with the armful of shirts he has and staring up at the stickers on Sam’s ceiling.

                Sam glances over at him and eyes him with a snort. “Seriously?” he says, “You got six years on me and you can’t even dress yourself up?”

                Dean rolls his eyes, fixing Sam with a look. “You gonna help me or not?” he grumbles, and Sam huffs a dramatic breath, pressing one hand to his chest.

                “ _Dean Winchester_ , asking _me_ for help? Are you feeling okay?” Sam teases, and Dean scoffs, shoving himself up from the bed.

                “Never mind, you heard nothing,” he growls, and Sam laughs, jumping up from his desk chair and grabbing Dean’s arm.

                “Wait, wait, fine,” he chuckles, “Don’t be such a girl. Turn around.”

                Dean shoots him a glare and then turns, holding his arms out to present himself. “This is all I got so far,” he says, and Sam raises an eyebrow.

                “Are you planning on wearing pants, or…?”

                Dean blanches and glances down at his bare legs, boxers peeking out from under his long dress shirt. “The pamphlet for the school dance says no jeans. I don’t have anything else.”

                Sam snorts. “You look like _Risky Business_.”

                Dean’s eyebrows press together. “How do you even _know_ about that movie?”

                Sam shakes his head. “Never mind,” he replies, grabbing Dean’s arm, “Come on. Dad’s got some old dress clothes in the back of his closet I think. You might have to iron them.”

                Dean stumbles after Sam as his brother drags him down the hallway to their father’s room. When he opens the door, it smells damp and musty, and the curtains are drawn, although thankfully John isn’t here – hasn’t been all day. Sam lets go of Dean’s arm once they’re inside and walks over to the closet, pulling the doors open, beginning to rifle through the clothing hanging on the rack.

                Dean grits his teeth when he spots the boxes of pictures and files and albums from The Accident on the floor of the closet, tucked away in the shadows in the back where Dean stuffed them after Sammy had his breakdown over their contents. Dean had decided it would be best to just put the boxes back where Sam found them after all, instead of destroying all the pictures and things inside like he wanted to – incurring the wrath of their father (had he discovered the boxes missing) would have been worse than Sam eventually seeing what’s inside those boxes again. He’s already seen the photos now, anyway. It would do no good to destroy them after the fact.

                Dean chews on his lip and tears his eyes away from the dreaded boxes, settling his gaze on Sammy’s back as Sam digs through the clothes hanging in John’s closet, trying to find _something_ that isn’t made of denim or flannel for Dean to wear to the dance tonight. Sam has been alright for a while now. He’s still been going to see Cara once a week or so, just to talk, and Dean has noticed an improvement in Sam’s mental health. It seems everyone is going to Cara these days – Cas, Dean, and Sammy. She’s like an angel just waiting there to help whoever is in need, although she insists that she likes meeting with students who need help to keep her mind off of her divorce. Dean thinks it’s more than that though. Cara Roberts is something special. Look what she’s done for Sam, after all.

                Dean clears his throat a little, scratching the back of his head. “Hey Sammy?”

                Sam glances over his shoulder momentarily and then looks back at the clothing he’s sifting through. “Yeah?”

                Dean hesitates, not really wanting to bring up crappy topics. But he has to know. He and Sam haven’t talked for a while, and he has to know. “How you doing?”

                Sam pulls out a dusty old suit jacket from the back of the closet, holding it up and eyeing it. “What do you mean?”

                Dean coughs as dust from the clothing floats around the room. “You know…with everything? How’s your head?”

                Sam’s forehead creases and he glances over at Dean, holding his gaze this time for a moment, and then narrowing his eyes. “You mean am I still…” he trails off, making a circle motion with his finger near his ear and whistling.

                Dean chuckles, popping an eyebrow. “Well, yeah, if you wanna put it that way,” he replies, eyes darting towards the boxes in John’s closet again. Sam doesn’t miss the look, and he glances back too, spotting the boxes sitting there on the floor of their father’s closet, all but _radiating_ bad memories, locked up tight with cardboard lids. Dean studies Sam as Sam swallows, staring at the boxes for a moment, and then looking back over at Dean, lips a little tight.

                “I’m fine,” he replies, pausing and then clearing his throat, looking down at the suit jacket in his hands. He’s still for just a moment, and then carries the jacket over to Dean, holding it up to his chest, making sure it’s big enough.

                Dean studies his brother, and Sam squirms a little under the scrutiny before huffing out an exasperated sigh, fixing Dean with a look. “I’m _fine_ Dean, you can stop worrying,” he says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “That’s very convincing,” he replies, and Sam grits his teeth, releasing a hard sigh, draping the suit jacket over Dean’s arm once he decides it’s a good size. The jacket smells the way John used to smell, back before The Accident, like cologne and sawdust and comfort. Dean doesn’t think that John has even worn this jacket since before their mother died.

                Sam runs a hand through his hair, his features softening a little. “Look…I really _am_ okay Dean,” he says quietly, “I know I had you worried there for a while. But…I don’t know. Talking to Cara is nice, and Jess has been helping me out too. Everyone’s got problems, you know?”

                Oh Dean _knows_. God _knows_ Dean understands that. He nods a little, taking that in, feeling a little of the worry that’s constantly simmering in the back of his mind for Sam fade. After a moment, his lips curl into a little smile, and he narrows his eyes at Sam. “Jess, huh? You guys still a thing?”

                Sam flushes bright red and rolls his eyes, turning back around and trudging over to the closet again. “None of your beeswax,” he grumbles, and Dean laughs.

                “’Atta boy Sammy,” he nods, “I approve.”

                “Shut up,” Sam retorts, but Dean sees his cheek lift from the back like he’s smiling. Sure enough, when Sam turns back around, carrying a pair of dress pants, he’s got a little sheepish grin on his face.

                Dean drops the three dress shirts and suit jacket he still has draped over his arm onto the floor, and accepts the pants when Sam hands them to him. He shakes them out a couple times, beating off the dust, and then shimmies his legs into them. While he clumsily tucks his dress shirt into the waistband of the pants and buttons up the rest of the shirt, Sam sniffs the air a little, cocking his head questioningly.

                “Why don’t you smell like smoke?” he asks, and Dean glances at him as he struggles to do up the last button on the shirt just below his neck.

                “Oh, uh…I quit smoking,” he replies, shifting uncomfortably as his shirt bunches a little where it’s tucked in the dress pants.

                Sam’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling. “You quit? When?”

                Dean shrugs. “Couple weeks ago,” he replies, as Sam reaches up and slaps his hands away, taking over doing up the last button under Dean’s chin.

                “Really?” Sam asks, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “Yes, really,” he replies, “Cas helped me quit over spring break.”

                Sam stares at him for a moment while Dean stoops down to pick up the suit jacket, shaking the dust off of it too and slipping his arms into it. When Dean glances at Sam’s face, he looks suddenly so overjoyed that Dean is actually a little taken aback by his expression. “What’re you staring at?” he grumbles, flushing a little in embarrassment, although he doesn’t really know why.

                Sam shakes his head, looking away. “It’s nothing,” he replies, “Why uh…why’d you decide to quit?”

                Dean rolls his eyes. From the look on Sam’s face, it’s no secret how much Sam hated Dean’s smoking. _Dean_ didn’t even like Dean’s smoking. As much as he misses smoking a cigarette on his roof, as much as he craves that burn of hot, dry cancer rolling down his throat, he’s glad he’s finished with it, even though it’s been a struggle.

                He glances at Sam’s face, taking in the happiness there at the fact that Dean’s stopped slowly killing himself with cigarettes, and he suddenly feels like all the pain of withdrawal was worth it. Not just for Cas, but for Sam as well.

                He shrugs again, suddenly very aware of the rub of healing cigarette burns under his sleeve. It’s been so long since he’s burned himself too. “I just got tired of depending on something so bad for me, you know?” he says, and Sam quirks a little smile, nodding after a moment.

                “That’s good,” he replies, running his hand through his hair again, his lips twitching like he’s fighting a huge smile that wants to explode across his face, “That’s really good Dean.”

                Dean snorts, smoothing down his suit jacket a few times. He briefly considers telling Sam the whole truth about why he quit smoking. He considers telling Sam that he couldn’t stop putting cigarettes out on his own skin, and that he’s been really fucked up for a while, and that things have been pretty bad upstairs. That Sam isn’t the only one who’s been slowly having a mental breakdown.

                But he doesn’t say anything. Maybe one day Dean will tell Sam what’s been done to him. Maybe one day Dean will tell Sam about Ghost Town, and Alastair, and his self-harm, and his crying, and how he beat the shit out of people, and all that crap that’s still fresh and oozing on the surface of Dean’s psyche, but not yet. He doesn’t want to tell Sam just yet. Because Sam is just starting to get better, as is Dean. They’re both healing. They both need time to get their own heads together before they start laying their crap on each other. So, yes, maybe one day Dean will tell Sam everything. But not today. Not yet.

                Instead of bringing up crap he can’t change, Dean keeps his lips sealed, and holds out his arms again to present himself. “How do I look?” he asks, coughing as the dust in the room settles.

                Sam eyes him up and down, nodding in approval. “Good,” he smiles, “The pants are a little long, but good.”

                Dean glances down at himself, wiggling his bare feet under the ends of the pants. “Dad got any shoes in there for me to wear?” he asks, and Sam his still for a moment, a look of sappy pride in his eyes, and then he turns around and rifles through the closet again, pulling out a pair of dress shoes that haven’t been shined in years. They’re all scuffed up and dull, but they’ll work. Dean grabs a pair of socks, pulling those on, and then steps into the shoes. They’re too big, kind of like the pants, but they’ll do.

                Sam smiles, and then raises one eyebrow, looking at the top of Dean’s head. “Are you at least gonna comb your hair?” he asks, and Dean purses his lips, pondering that for a moment before reaching up and scrubbing his hands through his hair a few times, messing it up so it sticks up in tufts and spikes.

                “There,” he replies, “Good enough.”

                Sam snorts, rolling his eyes and turning, heading out of their father’s room. Dean closes the closet, taking one last glance at the boxes on the floor, and then leaves John’s room as well, shutting the bedroom door and sealing in the dusty air.

                Dean doesn’t even have to ask – Sam just heads to his room and packs up a bag for the night to bring over to Bobby’s. He knows Dean isn’t going to leave him here alone for the night with John, and he also knows that Dean isn’t coming home tonight. It’s a school dance after all – it’s tradition to spend the night with your date. Dean steps into the bathroom and makes sure he looks alright, straightening out a couple wrinkles in the clothing. He smells a little like dust, so he steals a couple squirts of some old cologne in the cabinet that hasn’t been touched in years, and then gives his armpit a smell test.

                He hasn’t looked this cleaned up in a very long time. Even if the clothes are a little dusty and dull, they’re still a sleek black, and despite the fact that they’re about one size too big, they still hug his form in all the right places, creating a trim cut that compliments him nicely. He eyes himself in the mirror, and then nods once, as if to say _this will do_ , before heading out, grabbing his wallet and phone from his room and meeting Sam near the front door.

                They chatter companionably for the whole walk to Bobby’s house, shoving each other around. Dean waves to the squash lady, who smiles at them out her front window, holding one little dog under her arm. It looks like Feldspar, and Dean grins when he sees the little wrinkled face panting and snorting back at him out the window.

                It doesn’t take them long to get to the Singer’s, and Dean is thankful that it’s getting closer to the evening, and the air around them is crisp and cool. It’s been getting warmer lately in Rail Pass as spring sets in, and Dean thinks he’d probably have sweat through his suit by now if it wasn’t breezy.

                When they arrive, Ellen drags Dean into the house before he can escape, and assesses his outfit for the dance, turning him this way and that and smoothing down the wrinkles on the suit.

                “If I had more time, I’d iron this thing for you,” she tsks, tugging at the jacket. Dean snorts, leaning in and planting a kiss on her cheek.

                “That’s exactly why I waited till the last minute to drop Sammy off,” he points out, and she fixes him with a look as Jo comes around the corner of the kitchen, wearing a gentle blue dress that flows in several different cuts and angles down to the floor, hugging her in all the right places. Dean whistles high to low and reels Jo in by the small of her back, kissing her on the forehead.

                “You don’t look half bad,” he compliments with a smirk, and she shoves at him.

                “Right back at you,” she replies, sticking her tongue out at him.

                “You wanna come with us to dinner before the dance?” Dean offers, and Jo shakes her head, grinning up at him.

                “I have a _date_ ,” she replies, almost bragging.

                Dean raises his eyebrows. “You? On a date? Who’s the poor bastard?”

                Jo punches him, glaring at him and reaching up to smooth her blonde curls down a bit. “Just some guy from theatre,” she replies, shrugging casually.

                Dean snorts, but smiles a little. “Hope you have fun squirt,” he says, and Jo shoots him a glare, although the edges of her expression are soft and thankful.

                Ellen reaches up and attempts to smooth down Dean’s messy hair a little, but it doesn’t really work, and she clucks her tongue again. “Alright, go say bye to Bobby, and then get out of here before you’re late,” she says, “And take pictures!”

                Dean laughs. “I’ll leave all the picture taking to Charlie,” he replies as he pivots on a heel and ruffles Sam’s hair on the way to the living room where Bobby is nursing a beer and watching some game show. He looks up as Dean walks in, and then smiles, pushing himself up from the couch and eyeing Dean up and down like everyone else has.

                “That your daddy’s suit?” he asks after a moment, and Dean gives a little nod.

                “Apparently jeans and leather jackets will get you kicked out of formal dances, so Sam helped me improvise.”

                Bobby hums a little, offering his beer. “You embarrassed yet?” he asks, as Dean accepts the bottle and takes a long swallow before handing it back.

                “About what? Being stuck in this monkey suit?” he asks, and Bobby nods, eyeing him under the brim of his ratty hat.

                Dean glances behind himself, making sure nobody’s listening, and then leans in a little. “Hell yes,” he replies, “I’ve never worn a suit in my life.”

                Bobby chuckles richly, coming around the couch and smacking Dean on the shoulder. “You look fine son,” he replies, “Now go on and pick up that boy of yours. Have a good time.”

                Dean shoots him a grateful look, giving Bobby a one-armed hug and clapping him on the back once before pulling away and stealing another gulp of his beer. Bobby fixes him with a look, but his eyes are twinkling so Dean knows he’s not really irritated.

                Dean farewells everyone, ruffling Sam’s hair one more time after Sam has just smoothed it out again, and then slips out the front door, tucking his hands into the pockets of the dress pants as he heads down the street towards Castiel’s house where everyone is probably already waiting for him.

                He passes a couple people smoking on a bench near Hautley’s Bend when he reaches it, and the smell of the cigarettes floating through the air sets off those warning bells in his head, making him crave one. But he’s getting used to this, after a couple weeks. He’s getting used to ignoring his cravings. So he just grits his teeth and keeps walking, thinking about the things he craves more: Castiel’s lips, Castiel’s skin, Castiel’s cock. All these things taste so much better than cigarettes.

                With a small little smile, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips it open, staring at the slightly blurred picture of Castiel that he has as his background still, and even though it’s only been a few hours since he last saw Cas at school, he has butterflies in his stomach because he can’t wait to see him again.

 

*       *       *

 

                Castiel thought he’d get used to this. He thought he’d get used to opening his front door and seeing Dean standing there on the other side. He thought he’d get used to how fucking, unbelievably _beautiful_ Dean is. But honestly? Even now, months after they started seeing each other, and weeks after they decided to be boyfriends, Dean still takes Castiel’s breath away every time he sees him.

                When Castiel opens his front door and sees Dean standing there on the porch, wearing a sharp, yet worn-looking suit, Castiel has to take a moment to just remember how to _breathe_. The suit is black, and hangs gently off Dean’s body like it wasn’t made specifically for him, but he still looks stunning in it anyway. His hair is messy and sticking up every which way, and his freckled cheeks are flushed slightly from the crisp evening breeze outside.

                They just stare at each other for a second, and then Dean’s blushing cheeks grow a little redder. “You gonna invite me in?” he asks, and his voice, quiet with bashfulness, but husky as normal, is like the cherry on top of it all. _God_ Dean is perfect. He’s so perfect, sometimes Castiel feels like he might pass out from it.

                Cas clears his throat, closing his mouth that he didn’t even realize had fallen open upon the sight of Dean standing here dressed up all fancy. He glances behind himself as their friend’s voices ring out from inside the house, laughing and carrying on, and he slips out the front door briefly, pulling it shut, and then turning to Dean, grabbing the lapels of his suit jacket and reeling him in for a kiss.

                Dean makes a little noise of surprise, not having expected the kiss so suddenly, but Castiel just licks his way hungrily into Dean’s mouth, nipping at his lips and plunging his tongue between Dean’s parted teeth. The sound of surprise in the back of Dean’s throat turns into a moan, and Dean’s eyes fall closed as his lips start moving, kissing Castiel back. Cas inhales slowly, smelling the sweet musk of Dean’s skin, and an unfamiliar tang of some sort of cologne.

                As they stand there kissing, one of Dean’s hands comes up and grabs the tie around Cas’s neck, and he winds the blue fabric around his fist a few times, pulling Cas flush against him so there’s barely an inch to breathe. Cas lets go of Dean’s suit jacket and instead winds his arms around Dean’s shoulders, digging his hands into his soft hair and tugging gently, content to just stand here kissing Dean all night if he has to.

                A knock on the front window of Castiel’s house startles them apart, though, only minutes after they began, and they pull away from each other, both of them looking over at where Charlie and Dorothy are peeking out the living room window and laughing at them. Dean rolls his eyes and mutters, “Perverts,” under his breath before turning back around and letting out a shaky breath in a _whoosh_.

                Castiel feels momentarily lightheaded again when Dean gives him a dazzling smile, slowly unwinding his hand from around Cas’s blue tie. “I vote we make it a rule that you wear ties every single day,” Dean states, smoothing the tie down again.

                Castiel blushes a little and glances down at himself. He doesn’t look nearly as gorgeous as Dean, but he did his best. Charlie had helped him pick out the black slacks and simple white button-up shirt he’s wearing now, and had insisted he wear the blue tie, because according to her, _it brings out his eyes_.

                “It’s a bit ridiculous,” he replies, and Dean hums, leaning in and kissing him one more time.

                “It gives me something to grab onto,” he points out, and Castiel feels his cock twitch in his pants. He scowls at Dean and thinks unpleasant thoughts to keep himself from popping a boner right here and now.

                “You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, and Dean chuckles darkly. Castiel leans in and nips playfully at Dean’s neck before taking his hand and pulling him into the house. Charlie and Dorothy come around the corner from the living room and laugh at the both of them for making out on the front porch. Charlie comes up and throws her arms around Dean in greeting, while Dorothy plucks at Dean’s messy hair teasingly. Dean blushes and tries to smooth his hair down a little, but to no avail.

                When Gabriel and Kevin come out of the kitchen – Gabriel wearing a bright red tuxedo with his hair slicked back, and Kevin in a simple button up and slacks like Cas – Gabe fans himself and faints dramatically into Kevin’s arms when he gets a look at Dean all dressed up in his suit. Dean rolls his eyes, blushing harder, and grumbles, “Can we just go?” Gabriel laughs and he and Kevin come up and clap Dean on the back, Gabe giving him a saucy wink and telling him he looks _prettier than a French whore_.

                Cas laughs, although he doesn’t really understand the joke, and the six of them wander out the front door to Charlie’s car parked on the curb. Anna, Jesse, and Missouri are all standing in the living room window of Missouri’s house, and Castiel and Dean wave to them as they get into the car. Missouri had spent all afternoon before Cas’s friends arrived hanging out with Castiel in her kitchen, cooking and chatting.

                Castiel is trying his best to put out of his mind the unpleasant thoughts surrounding his parents and their disownment. It’s been a week since his mother’s phone call, and two since his father’s, and he still feels a little raw inside because of it. But he’s been seeing Cara, and has been spending a lot of time with Missouri. It’s really opened his eyes more, spending time with Missouri. She’s like the mother Castiel never had. She listens when Cas talks about his day at school, and helps him when he struggles with his homework. And it’s not just Castiel – it’s Anna too. At this point, Anna’s probably spent more time with Missouri in less than a year, that she’s spent with either of her own parents her entire life.

                As the dust settles in Castiel’s war-ravaged mind, he’s beginning to see the bigger picture. He’s beginning to understand that parents who disown him for loving someone, aren’t in fact parents at all. It hurts, but he’s dealing with it. He’s feeling better.

                And besides, he has Dean here by his side. And isn’t that more important?

                They all pile into Charlie’s car, squeezed together tightly since there are six of them in the tiny vehicle, and Castiel keeps his hand wound around Dean’s, looking over at him and giving him a soft smile because he feels _happy_. Over all the sickness and the hurt, he feels happy. And that’s what really matters right now, especially on a night like this.

                They elect to go out to dinner at Benny’s Cajun place in town again, since it’s relatively cheap and the food is great. All six of them have to squeeze into a booth since all the tables are taken with other students dining before the dance, as well as local families and couples. Dean waves to Benny through the little window in the kitchen, and Benny salutes him with his spatula before going back to work.

                Dinner itself is amazing, as it always is at Benny’s restaurant. And being the loveable friend Benny is, he gives them all their meals for free and tells them to be careful and have fun tonight at the school dance. They all wolf their food down inelegantly, and start up a miniature food fight throwing cherry tomatoes and little bits of cornbread at each other before promptly putting an end to that so their nice clothes don’t get ruined.

                When they get up to leave, Benny comes out from the kitchen and he and Dean share a brief hug. All of them thank Benny for the free meal, and after a little bit of poking fun at Dean’s nice outfit, Benny laughs and farewells them all.

                The drive to the school doesn’t last very long, but Charlie has to park somewhere further away since the lot is so crowded with cars from people attending the dance. They make the long walk to the front doors of the school and hand in their tickets to get in, and Castiel feels a little excited flutter in his stomach. He’s _never_ been to a school dance before. Not ever. Even the free ones at his old schools. He never had anyone to go with.

                The halls are decorated with blue streamers and circles of paper cut out and drawn on to resemble bubbles. There are big paper mermaids taped to the lockers and when they enter the gymnasium where the school dance is being held, the lights are somewhat dimmed, and there are _thousands_ of balloons, all blue and white and silver, tied to the railings of the wooden bleachers and the backs of chairs, floating up near the ceiling and garnishing the corners and the speakers pumping out loud music.

                Castiel just stands there for a moment in awe, gripping Dean’s hand tightly and staring at all the balloons, at the crowd of students already dancing around a center area where a hired DJ is taking music requests. Charlie and Dorothy go running off towards the dance floor, and Gabe promptly turns and starts chatting up a couple girls on the sidelines who are both waiting to be asked to dance. Kevin claps them both on the back and then wanders off towards a big table set up on the other side of the room with a punch bowl and big platters of cheap food.

                Castiel spots Victor the security guard standing with his arms crossed on the edge of the gym, a scowl on his face as he occasionally has to weave his way into the crowd of students dancing a pull couples off of each other as their dancing becomes too intimate. Cas would laugh if he wasn’t so in awe at how _different_ everything looks, compared to how he expected it to look. It’s not as luxurious as the parties at Bela Talbot’s mansion, but the dance committee did a fantastic job of transforming the gym into a themed dance hall.

                Dean squeezes his hand, breaking him out of his stupor, and he blinks, looking over at his beautiful date. Dean grins at him.

                “You wanna dance?” he asks, and Castiel swallows, his eyes darting to Dean’s lips before he nods.

                Dean grins wider and pulls Castiel out into the crowd of dancing students. They weave their way through the writhing bodies to the back where the light doesn’t quite reach, out from under the watchful eye of Victor and other teachers prowling the edges of the crowd waiting to break up couples dancing too sexually for school rules. Once they’re carefully under the cover of other dancers, Dean spins Cas around in place and reels him in by his tie again, pressing their bodies flush together and immediately starting to dance.

                Cas is frozen in place for a moment, always hesitant when it comes to dancing since he’s so bad at it, but eventually Dean settles a hand on his hip and starts to move him too, so they’re both rocking quickly with the rapid beat. It takes Castiel a few minutes, but eventually he relaxes, melting into Dean’s arms and rolling his hips, grinding with Dean like all the other couples are doing. For the most part, Castiel really doesn’t understand why dancing like this is so much fun, but he finds himself having a good time after a while. The music is loud, but catchy and easy to follow, and every so often, Dean will grin and lean in, kissing him deeply, both of them swelling in their pants just a bit, but not enough to be terribly distracting.

                Charlie and Dorothy eventually find them in the crowd and dance beside them, followed shortly by Gabriel with not two, but _three_ ladies on his arms, who all seem utterly taken by him, to Castiel’s amusement. When Castiel cranes his neck looking for Kevin, he spots him still over by the snack table, talking with a couple other people he knows, and that makes Castiel smile. He wants to make sure all his friends are having fun before he himself can go back to having fun with Dean. It’s only right, after all.

                One song bleeds into the next, and Castiel cocks his head when he vaguely recognizes the song that starts playing. It takes him a few moments to realize he’s heard this song a few times at the parties in Johnson, and when he looks at Dean, Dean has that same sort of recognition in his eyes. This whole dance actually reminds Castiel a lot of the parties he and Dean have been to, although things are a lot stricter here inside the school.

                Dean seems to be sharing that same thought, and without a word, he grins widely at Cas, and slows them both down from dancing so quickly. Castiel is confused at first, until Dean settles his hands on Cas’s hips and starts to sway them both, slowly, rocking them from side to side, completely out of tune with the music. Castiel realizes Dean is slow dancing with him again, just like the first time they were at that party in Johnson together. He feels a rush of giddiness in his stomach, and he can’t help the giant smile that stretches across his face. It feels like _years_ ago that they slow danced at Bela’s party, but it was only months, and here they are doing it again.

                Cas pulls in a deep breath, sliding a little closer to Dean and wrapping his arms around Dean’s back, burying his face in Dean’s neck and allowing Dean to lead them both through the slow swaying dance, all throughout the rest of the song and into the next. Around them, other students are jumping and cheering and being overly rowdy, ignoring teacher’s warning to keep their crotches at least six inches apart. But for some reason, the teachers leave Cas and Dean alone. No one comes by to interrupt them, and they sway there together to the beat of their own drum.

                Castiel doesn’t hear the music anymore. He hears nothing really, just faint music in his own head, and the memory of Dean’s moans and ragged pants in bed. He can feel Dean’s chest gently swell and deflate beneath his suit jacket with every breath he takes, and with Castiel’s lips pressed to the side of Dean’s neck, and he can feel his gentle heartbeat, sweet as nectar, mixing with the light sheen of sweat there from the heat of the packed gymnasium.

                What feels like _hours_ later, Castiel looks up and sees that Charlie and Dorothy have disappeared again, somewhere into the crowd, and Gabriel is over near the punch bowl serving drinks to his three ladies. Kevin is dancing with a shorter girl that Castiel recognizes as the teacher’s assistant who works in the library, and Castiel smiles softly, holding onto Dean tighter as Dean turns his head and his lips brush Castiel’s earlobe.

                “How’s this for your first school dance, huh?” Dean asks, and although he has to speak loudly over the blare of the music, to Castiel it sounds like a whisper, intimate, secret. Despite the nights he and Dean have shared, the kisses and touches and sweat, for some reason, this feels like the most intimate thing Castiel has ever done, just slow dancing here in the middle of the crowd. It feels different than the party in Johnson when they did this for the first time. Maybe because now, Castiel knows he’s in love with Dean, and it isn’t some forbidden fruit that he’s been fighting for so long.

                 He pulls away from Dean’s neck, looking at him and smiling. Instead of replying to him with words, Castiel just leans in and presses their lips together. Dean chuckles, the sound of it vibrating against Castiel’s mouth, and kisses him back. The time they spend kissing is endless, their tongue twisting together, lips dragging slow and languid, hands clutching at each other. Even when Castiel opens his eyes a couple times and spots Gordon and Zachariah sneering at them from the snack table, it doesn’t ruin how good this feels. He doesn’t even think seeing his parents, or even _Alastair,_ right now would ruin how wonderful it feels to be standing here, kissing Dean in the middle of all these students, earning curious stares and whispers despite the fact that they’ve been a public couple for quite some time now.

                Dean is the first one to actually roll his hips forward, grinding his crotch against Castiel’s through their nice dress pants. The rolls of Dean’s hips match the beat of the music as a slower song starts up, and Castiel can’t help but meet Dean’s thrusts with his own. It’s dark enough and crowded enough in the gym that no one really seems to notice their intimacy growing more heated, so Castiel doesn’t worry about being watched. He doesn’t worry about people seeing the way his and Dean’s hips are grinding together, their breaths becoming ragged as they begin to harden in their pants.

                When Castiel feels Dean’s erection bump up against his own, he moans lowly and grips handfuls of Dean’s suit jacket, pulling their bodies as close together as possible, wishing there was a wall somewhere that he could pin Dean against, tear his clothes off and just _take_. But they’re still in the middle of the school dance, and things like that have to wait.

                Dean huffs a few ragged breaths, clutching desperately at Castiel’s hips and thrusting against him a few times, rougher than before. If they keep this up, Castiel is pretty sure they’re both going to come in their pants, just like they did in the middle of the dance floor at Bela’s last party.

                Before that happens though, Castiel forces himself to pull away, placing his hands on Dean’s hips to still them and breaking their kiss apart. Dean pants and drops his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder, letting out a hoarse chuckle and kissing the soft skin at the side of Cas’s throat. Castiel blinks a few times, clearing his head of the fog of arousal. He’s already achingly hard in his pants, but he tries to ignore that for now, coming down from the high and holding onto Dean for support.

                He can’t honestly tell whether the scent of sweat and musk is just between the two of them, or from everyone else dancing around them too. He blushes a little in embarrassment as Dean finally straightens a little, glancing at the clock across the room. When Cas glances at it too, he’s surprised to find that they’ve already been here for a couple hours. He got so lost in dancing with Dean that it feels like only ten minutes have passed.

                Dean blinks a few times, and when Castiel takes a closer look at his eyes, his pupils are slightly dilated, although Cas isn’t sure whether that’s because it’s dark in here, or because Dean is aroused. Dean licks his spit-slick lips and then leans in, bringing his mouth up next to Castiel’s ear.

                “You wanna get out of here?” he asks, voice sounding a little wrecked, which makes Castiel shiver.

                Cas exhales shakily, and when Dean pulls away to look at him, all Cas can manage is a nod. Yes. Getting out of here sounds like a hell of a good idea right about now, if he can even manage to _walk_ with how hard he is right now.

                They quickly search for one of their friends in the crowd, and end up finding Kevin dancing nearby. Saying goodbye to him, they ask him to let the others know that they left and walked home, and Kevin eyes them with a raised eyebrow.

                “Have fun you two,” is all he says, and Castiel blushes, looking down to hide his smile.

                “Oh we will,” Dean grins, inconspicuously reaching down and squeezing one of Castiel’s ass cheeks through his pants, making Cas jump a little and blush even harder. With that, the two of them weave their way through the crowd, back down the hallway with the blue streamers and mermaids and bubbles, and out the front door of the school. They wander around the back of the building, and Castiel has to physically restrain himself from taking Dean and slamming him up against the bricks of the building, fucking him right here and now. God forbid Victor made his rounds and found them with Cas’s cock buried to the hilt up Dean’s ass out here in the dark.

                Taking Dean’s hand, the two of them cross the back parking lot, passing by The Docks, which are empty of smokers at this late hour, and slip into the trees along the little worn path leading towards Castiel’s house.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean’s erection has waned slightly by the time they get back to Cas’s place. He still shifts uncomfortably and pulls at his pant leg though, in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure the pants have on his hard cock. The moment they get inside Castiel’s house, Cas takes Dean’s hand and drags him up the stairs to his bedroom. They don’t even stop to turn on the downstairs lights, or to get some food, or a drink of fucking water – nothing.

                When they step inside Castiel’s bedroom, Cas doesn’t even close the door. He just turns Dean around and tears him out of his suit jacket, tugging at the ends of his dress shirt to pull it out from where it’s tucked in his pants. Dean just stands there in a stupor for a moment, before gulping and reaching his own hands out, starting to claw at Castiel’s clothing as well.

                To his utter shock, Cas growls and slaps his hands away, yanking Dean’s shirt off over his head. Instead of removing it completely though, Castiel pulls Dean’s arms behind his back, winding the dress shirt around them a bit to secure them there. Dean feels his cock twitch and harden fully once again. So it’s going to be one of _those_ kinds of nights. He can already tell he’s going to be walking funny in the morning. But he’s completely okay with that.

                Dean tugs at the makeshift bind the shirt has around his wrists, but Castiel locks eyes with him and holds his wrists behind his back with one hand, a look of warning in his gaze. Dean stills, his lips parting on an exhale, and Castiel’s eyes dart down to his mouth before he leans in and crushes their lips together.

                Dean feels a dizzying thrill rush through him at the feeling of Cas’s tongue licking hungrily into his mouth, and his knees buckle a little with the intensity of it, despite the fact that they’ve barely gotten started yet.

                Castiel seems to notice the way Dean sways a little where he stands, because he breaks off the kiss far too soon and drags Dean over to the bed, throwing him down onto the soft mattress face-first. His arms are still trapped behind him with the shirt twisted around his wrists, so he can’t throw out his hands to catch himself, and ends up bouncing inelegantly a couple times before settling on his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillows.

                When Castiel crawls on top of him and settles over his body, Dean can feel Cas’s erection through both their pants, pressing up against the swell of Dean’s ass. And despite the fact that he’s unbearably horny right now, suddenly the press of Castiel against his back, the weight of him holding Dean facedown on the bed, sends a pang of nausea through the deeper corners of Dean’s gut.

                He freezes in place, his breath stuttering a little before stopping completely, voice and exhales caught in his chest, lungs rigid, whole _body_ suddenly rigid. Castiel doesn’t notice the way Dean stiffens at first, too busy running his hands over Dean’s scars, and along his bound arms, kissing the nape of his neck and rocking against him slowly. It feels _good_ , and Dean’s own hard cock is still steadily leaking in his pants where it’s pressed to the bed. So why does Dean suddenly feel like he’s about to puke?

                It takes him a few long, drawn-out minutes of barely restrained panic clenching in his chest for him to realize what’s wrong, and when he does, a wildfire of anger sweeps through him from head to toe, making him grit his teeth and his limbs begin to tremble.

                _No_. Why? Why does every little thing have to remind him of the things he wishes desperately to forget? As Castiel continued to rock against him, kissing the side of Dean’s neck and nibbling at his earlobe, Dean squeezes his eyes shut, hands balling into fists, struggling to breathe as phantom sensations begin to override the feeling of Castiel’s much gentler hands sweeping over his body, lovingly, not controlling, not violating.

                Dean has never been fucked facedown before. Never. Not even before the incident at Ghost Town. Sure he’s been on his hands and knees, getting fucked six ways from Sunday, but never facedown like this, pressed to the bed, completely at the mercy of the person on top of him. And logically, yes, he knows this is Castiel, and they’ve had sex countless times in countless ways, but for some reason, right now, this feels wrong. Off.

                The only time Dean has ever been in a situation where he’s been touched sexually by another person while pinned facedown to some surface like this, is when Alastair hurt him at Ghost Town.

                That’s all he has to go off of right now. That’s all he has to compare his memories to.

                And that’s why, with the weight of Cas pinning him here face-first to the bed, he suddenly feels like the room is closing in around him. _God damn it_ , he thought he was _over_ this shit. Being in Maine with Cas, fucking and getting fucked several times a day for a week straight, he thought he was really, _truly_ over what happened at Ghost Town.

                But by the way he’s suddenly broken out into a cold sweat, fighting the bile rising in his throat from the feeling of someone pressed heavy against his back, he’s not over it. He’s really not over it. And as much as that scares him, it also _pisses him off_. When will this shit fucking _end_?

                After a few minutes of gentle touches and the steady rock of his erection against Dean’s still-clothed backside, Castiel suddenly seems to notice the way Dean has gone still beneath him. His movements slow to a stop, and Dean feels Cas lift himself up a little, looking down at Dean where he has his face buried in the mattress, eyes squeezed tightly shut, just trying to breathe, to not panic, to swallow back the nausea.

                “Dean?” Castiel asks, his voice breaking a little with barely-restrained arousal, but also sudden concern.

                Dean is quiet for a moment, just focusing on his breathing, trying not to think about the heaviness of Castiel’s erection still pressed to his ass. Trying not to think about someone _else’s_ erection touching him there, someone else’s teeth sinking into his shoulder, someone else’s fingernails.

                The onslaught of this sudden mild panic attack is so sudden that Dean is left reeling with the sensation. He hasn’t had a panic attack in a while – maybe even months. _Why_ did his fucking brain have to choose _now_? He feels himself blushing, ashamed, as he tries to pull himself together. How many times is he going to have to convince himself that he’s _safe_ here? How many times is he going to have to snap himself out of these flashbacks of memories? How many times is he going to feel those phantom fingernails carving into his flesh? Taste that bitter blood in his mouth? Feel that cold come freezing on his bare back in the winter chill?

                Distantly, he feels a hand settle in his hair, and he jumps slightly, because he wasn’t expecting such a _real_ feeling touch among all the ghostly ones surrounding him. The contact causes his slowly spiraling mind to surface momentarily, and it’s just long enough to hear Castiel’s voice ask, “Dean? Are you alright?”

                And no. No he’s not alright. But he _wants_ to be. Desperately. So he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just swallows convulsively and tries not to puke, to focus on breathing in and out, in and out, in and out. His heart is hammering – he can feel it where his chest is pressed snug to the mattress. And he doesn’t want to admit it, but his body is trembling, ever so slightly, a subtle vibration that he’s ninety-five percent sure Castiel has noticed by now.

                But Dean _wants_ to be alright. He’s so turned on right now he’s starting to ache deliciously between his legs, and he wants Cas _inside_ him. He wants Cas inside him _yesterday_.

                Just…Dean doesn’t want Alastair to be here too. He doesn’t want the memory of Alastair’s sneering face, his bloody tongue, his grunts and moans of sick pleasure, Dean’s screams of pain, to be here ruining it all.

                But despite the fact that he’s suddenly waging a war in his mind, Dean doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say anything to Cas about how he’s feeling right now. Cas knows already what happened to Dean, knows that it wasn’t very long ago, and he’s still healing. The way Castiel’s fingers are carding gently through his hair is indication that he knows at least _somewhat_ why Dean is suddenly frozen in place.

                Dean tries to shove aside all those bad memories, all the phantom pains, and he forces himself to focus on the feeling of Castiel’s hand in his hair, gently petting him, like soothing a spooked horse. It should be humiliating, but Dean melts under the soft caress of Castiel’s fingers, shivers with something other than fear when Cas’s fingertips scrape gently along his scalp.

                He lets loose a shuddering breath, his rigid muscles going lax again on Castiel’s bed. This is _Cas_. There’s no one else here. It’s just Cas.

                And damn it, no matter what Dean’s feeling right now, he’s going to let Cas do this. He’s going to let Cas fuck him facedown like this, right into the mattress, and Dean is going to fucking _love_ it. He’s not going to let these stupid memories completely rule his life. He’s not going to let _Alastair_ rule his life.

                Licking his lips and gulping slightly, he lifts his head a little and blinks his eyes open, resolutely ignoring the wetness there that he hadn’t even noticed before. Castiel’s hand pauses in his hair, and Dean pulls in a shuddering breath, swallowing a few times to lubricate his dry throat before speaking.

                “Can…can you untie my hands?” he asks, voice cracking a little. Cas is still for a moment, and then without a word, he shifts up. Dean shudders in fear/pleasure when he feels Cas’s erection press more firmly to his backside as Castiel sits up slightly, reaching for his bound hands.

                With careful, gently tugs, he unwinds the dress shirt from around Dean’s wrists, freeing his arms, and as Cas tosses the shirt aside, Dean drags his arms forward, gripping handfuls of the blankets and anchoring himself to the present. He closes his eyes again as Castiel lays back down on top of him, and he presses his nose into the pillows, inhaling slow and deep. The pillow smells overwhelmingly of Castiel, of fresh spring shampoo and earth and rainwater. It causes another shiver to roll through Dean’s body, and a tiny smile touches at the corners of his quivering lips.

                He can do this.

                Castiel’s hand returns to his hair, carding fingers through the soft strands, and this time Dean arches a little into the press of those fingers, seeking out their comfort.

                “Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel asks, and Dean almost laughs, because if _course_ Castiel has already figured out why Dean is suddenly acting so weird, when minutes ago, he was completely game for a whole night of rough, kinky sex.

                He swallows again, and shakes his head, breathing in the smell of Cas again. He can do this. He can. He’s going to let Cas fuck him facedown like this, and it’s going to be awesome. And Alastair can go screw himself.

                Dean lifts his face away from the pillow long enough to say, “Do it Cas,” and then buries his face in the bedding again, inhaling that intoxicating smell.

                Castiel seems to hesitate, unsure, his hand stilling in Dean’s hair. And Dean almost expects Castiel to ask him if he’s sure, if he’s really ready. But Cas doesn’t, to Dean’s relief.

                When a few moments have passed, Castiel starts to rock against Dean again, and Dean’s breath hitches as little tendrils of pleasure spiral through him as his hard cock is nudged against the mattress beneath him. Cas removes his hand from Dean’s hair and slides the flat of his palm down Dean’s side again, landing on his hip with a couple of his fingers dipping into the waistband of Dean’s dress pants.

                Dean just grips the blankets in white-knuckled fists, holding on for dear life, forcefully ignoring the bad memories that are screaming and clawing at the flimsy barriers he’s put up in his mind to block them for now. He’s going to fucking enjoy tonight, and every other night with Castiel, for the rest of their lives. He’s going to fucking love it. And eventually those little demons taunting and scratching at the wall in his mind will give up and lie dormant in the corners of Dean’s brain that hold all his bad memories, compartmentalized and mummified, never to be poked or prodded at.

                He’s going to get fucked facedown. He’s going to damn well get fucked any way he pleases. And no one can take that away from him – especially not Alastair.

                Castiel picks up the pace a little after a few minutes of making sure Dean isn’t going to freeze up again. Dean exhales heavily again and then cants his hips back a little, grinding his ass back against Castiel’s crotch. It earns him a low groan from deep in Cas’s chest, and Dean’s stomach flutters excitedly at the sound.

                Castiel thrusts up against Dean’s ass several more times, and then lifts off, clawing at Dean’s pants and all but tearing them off, his boxers and shoes quickly following, so he’s left completely naked, laying on his stomach on the bed, while Castiel is still fully clothed above him.

                Dean lays there and waits, shivering a little as he hears the clink of Castiel’s belt being opened and removed, followed by his shirt and his pants. When Cas has removed his clothing, he briefly reaches over and fumbles in the nightstand for lube and a condom, and then blankets himself back over Dean. Dean jerks and groans when he feels Castiel’s bare erection settle between the cheeks of his ass, blots of precome smearing on the small of his back.

                Dean feels a strange, soft fabric pooling between his shoulder blades, and it takes him a second to realize Castiel left his tie on when he took off the rest of his clothes. Dean almost laughs, and if he weren’t so horny right now, he would have. But the image of what Castiel must look like right now, naked and aroused with nothing but his tie hanging loose around his neck, makes Dean’s cock twitch and harden impossibly more beneath him where it’s pressed snug to the mattress. This reminds Dean of the first time he fucked Castiel, in that hayloft, when all Cas had on what his tie.

                There’s a soft snick in the quiet of the room, and then Castiel lifts up just a bit, and lubed fingers delve between the cheeks of Dean’s ass. Dean groans and hisses as the cold gel brushes his overheated entrance, but Castiel goes slowly, like he always does, not wanting to hurt Dean. The first finger that slides inside of Dean goes easily all the way to the hilt, and Dean holds his breath until Castiel’s last knuckle settles against his rim, lungs deflating and punching the air out of him rapidly.

                It takes a while for Castiel to finger Dean open, first with one, and then two, and finally three, buried all the way to the hilt, spearing him open as Dean’s soft groans and grunts turn into a steady string of whimpers and mewls into the pillow beneath him. He full on cries out when Castiel’s fingers brush over his prostate, and Cas teases him for a few minutes, jabbing the sensitive nub deep inside him while Dean moans and cants his hips back, spreading his legs even more, all thoughts of Alastair already dissolving into black smoke and disappearing from his mind.

                Castiel chuckles darkly, his mouth pressed to the back of Dean’s shoulder as he lays gentle kisses to his freckled skin, occasionally biting down, although not enough to draw blood. Dean wants to throw an insult back at him, because he knows how much Cas _loves_ to reduce Dean to a moaning, whimpering mess of limbs in bed. But he’s too lost in the feeling of Cas’s delicate fingers plunging swiftly into his body, picking up the pace a little just to earn him telltale twitches and jerks of Dean’s body from overstimulation.

                Dean squeezes his eyes shut and inhales the delicious scent of the pillow beneath him, the heady scent of arousal permeating in the air as both of them grow harder, little drops of precome dripping every so often onto the backs of Dean’s thighs and his buttocks from Cas’s erection. He pants into the bedding, his head growing light with the intensity of the stimulation. He’s confused when Castiel just keeps going, wondering if Cas is planning on having Dean come from just his fingers alone. Dean doesn’t question it, just spreads his legs further and arches his back submissively, giving Cas better access to spear him open, Dean’s cock twitching and drooling beneath him, a small pool of precome on the mattress already.

                Just as Dean’s about to come, his balls drawing up tight, orgasm getting ready to spring, Castiel very suddenly yanks his fingers out of Dean’s ass, his hole clenching at the sudden loss, and his fingers slide between Dean’s legs, wrapping tightly around the base of Dean’s erection to stave off the impending orgasm. Dean releases a desperate sob, hips twitching in need of some sort of stimulation or contact. But as Dean tries to push himself up onto all fours, Cas’s free hand slides up the dip of his spine and settles between his shoulder blades, pressing him back down, and Dean succumbs willingly, sobbing hoarsely again and collapsing back into the blankets.

                For a minute or two, they just lay there with Cas’s fingers still locked tight around the base of Dean’s straining erection, allowing him time for his arousal to settle. Dean pants harshly into the pillow, and just when he thinks that he’s off the hook for now, that Cas is just going to get it over with and fuck him, he feels lips press gently to his left ass cheek. Dean jumps a little, and groans as Cas finally releases the base of his dick.

                But the relief doesn’t last for long – before Dean can even comprehend what’s happening, Castiel has his hands gripping his hips and pulling up so that his ass is presented in the air, while his upper half is still pressed to the mattress. Dean tries to look back to see what the hell Cas is doing, but he doesn’t get a chance to see before a wide, wet tongue suddenly circles his entrance.

                Dean gasps and then cries out as overwhelming pleasure ripples through him once more. His ass is already wet with lube, and from the sweet scent in the air, it’s the lemon kind. But apparently he isn’t wet enough for Castiel’s tastes, and Cas takes both of his ass cheeks, one in each hand, and spreads them wide, diving in and licking at his hole with abandon. Dean jerks and sobs into the pillow, gripping handfuls of the blankets in his fists, body quivering, all the reverberations from his earlier panic attack gone, replaced by the unbelievable pleasure.

                He’s never been eaten out before, _ever_. And he imagines this is the first time Cas has ever done anything like this. The thought of both of them being so inexperienced in this particular department only serves to turn Dean on more, and he can’t _believe_ how good it feels. The way Castiel’s tongue circles his entrance shamelessly, occasionally dipping inside to taste his inner walls. Dean’s body clenches reflexively as Castiel’s tongue dips inside again, and to Dean’s shock, Castiel groans. Actually fucking _groans_ , like this is the most enjoyable thing he’s ever done.

                He doesn’t even have to touch Dean’s cock as he slowly licks Dean open – the sensation of Cas’s tongue plunging into his hole feels like a mouth wrapped around Dean’s dick as it is. He trembles in arousal, struggling not come, his moans muffled by the pillow beneath him. And when Castiel starts to flick his tongue rapidly against the tight pucker of Dean’s ass, Dean practically _loses_ it, moaning and writhing where he struggles to hold position, his toes curling and thighs cramping where they’re spread so wide.

                “Fuck, _Cas_ ,” he gasps into the pillow, and by the way Castiel’s hands tighten on his ass cheeks, he heard Dean breathe his name. For a couple more minutes, it’s just the overwhelming sensation of Castiel’s tongue licking at Dean’s hole, hands massaging Dean’s ass, little breaths huffed out against Dean’s most intimate places.

                And then, without warning, Castiel suddenly pulls his mouth away, and Dean’s ears are ringing so much he doesn’t even hear the sound of the condom wrapper being torn open quickly. He just lays there with his face buried in the mattress, struggling to catch his breath, body vibrating with need. It’s like torture – sweet, sweet torture. And it’s driving Dean _crazy_.

                He jerks and groans again as Castiel’s cock brushes up against his ass, but Castiel grabs hold of his hips, shoves him flat against the bed, and with barely a breath, he plunges inside, burying himself all the way to the hilt in the first thrust. Dean _howls_ into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut as intense pleasure/pain rips through him. Castiel doesn’t even give him a moment to catch his breath, just starts fucking him in earnest, pulling out and slamming back in so rapidly Dean can’t even count the strokes.

                A long, steady, keening moan is forced out of him, bouncing with the rhythm of the trusts, and the loud slap of skin on skin echoes in the quiet of the room. It takes Dean a second to realize that Cas is grunting and groaning above him. Usually Cas is fairly quiet, so to hear him completely coming apart above Dean makes a shiver roll through Dean’s exhausted muscles.

                One of Castiel’s hands travels up Dean’s back, sliding over scars and rippling flesh, over the prominent jut of his shoulder blades and up the back of his neck. Dean thinks that Cas is going to stoke his hair again, gentle and sweet in contrast to the brutality of his thrusts as he pounds into Dean’s ass without mercy. But instead, Castiel grabs a handful of Dean’s soft hair, and _pulls_ , yanking Dean’s head back at an almost painful angle, forcing his back to arch, enabling Castiel to plunge even _deeper_ inside his clenching hole.

                Dean cries out, his moans and whimpers no longer muffled by the pillow, and Castiel blankets himself over Dean’s back, his other hand traveling up and wrapping around Dean’s neck. Dean’s breath hitches as Castiel applies pressure to his throat, not quite enough to cut off his air, but enough that Dean can feel his pulse struggling to pump past the press of his hand. Dean’s fingers scramble for purchase against the blankets, and all he can do is spread his legs wider and give in to the tug of Cas’s hands to relieve some of the pressure, moaning and crying out, a couple tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

                Castiel’s face appears beside him and, in strange contrast to the roughness of his handling, Cas places gentle kisses to the sides of Dean’s face, licking away his tears and mouthing softly at his jaw, shushing him directly into his ear and brushing the thumb of the hand around Dean’s neck along his soft, sweaty skin soothingly.

                And while Dean is completely lost in the sensations, feeling every inch of Castiel moving inside him, deeper and brushing over his prostate, he still manages to have enough control over his own body to reach back with one hand, hooking his fingers around the back of Cas’s head and holding his face there beside Dean’s own, begging with touches and moans for Cas to keep going, to not stop, because Dean _isn’t_ afraid, and he’s _not_ going to break. And that makes him so _happy_ that he stutters out an uneven, breathless laugh as Castiel slams into him.

                Dean’s hand slips a little from the back of Cas’s head, and he ends up hooking his fingers around the fabric of the tie still looped around Castiel’s neck. Dean uses the grip as a handle, holding on for dear life as Castiel picks up the pace, pounding relentlessly into him. Dean’s cock, trapped against the bed, rubs roughly and tantalizingly against the fabric of the blankets, and he feels that familiar burning low in his abdomen as his orgasm begins to spike.

                He doesn’t even realize a steady stream of, “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ ,” is being punched out of him until Cas slides his hand away from Dean’s neck and hooks a couple fingers into his mouth as a sort of gag, stopping the string of curses just as Dean squeezes his eyes shut and cries out hoarsely, his scream muffled by Cas’s fingers as his climax floods through him, taking him a little by surprise. His cock twitches on the bed below him and he feels the hot wetness of his own release trapped beneath his skin. His hips jerk and he shudders as he comes, unable to stop the moans that continue to pour out of his mouth around Cas’s fingers.

                Dean’s hand releases Castiel’s tie and falls limply to the bed, and Castiel lets go of Dean’s hair, causing Dean to flop somewhat uselessly back down into the pillow. But Cas doesn’t seem to mind. His hands settle again on Dean’s hips, yanking him up in a low arch, and while Dean lays there trying desperately to move his hips a little, helping Cas along, Castiel starts thrusting even _faster_ , impossibly, the slaps of skin so loud that Dean actually flushes a little in embarrassment.

                It’s less than a minute after Dean comes that Castiel lets out a harsh gasp, and his cock twitches inside of Dean, flooding the condom with Cas’s own release. Castiel works himself through it with a few more languid thrusts, slowing his pace slightly, until he’s wrung out dry, and then he collapses on top of Dean, both of them panting harshly and trembling a little.

                As the heavy fog of post-orgasm lifts a bit, Dean winces at the soreness of his abused ass, the ache in his back, the dull throb of bite marks and bruises littering his neck and shoulders that he didn’t even notice Castiel giving him. Cas remains buried to the hilt for a few minutes, his cock slowly softening inside of Dean, and Dean catches his breath, until he’s breathing at a more normal pace, laying there with his face buried in the pillow, eyes closed, perfectly sated.

                It takes a while for Cas to finally move, and when he does, both of them hiss a little as his spent cock slides out of Dean’s puffy, swollen hole. Dean lays there for a moment until Cas’s gentle hands reach down and wrap around his biceps, pulling him up from the bed, limp as a rag doll. Dean collapses against Cas, leaning on him for support as they kneel on the soiled mattress, and Castiel’s fingers trail under Dean’s chin, lifting his head up enough to give him a gentle kiss.

                Dean’s forehead creases and he struggles to find the coherency to reciprocate. But eventually, he’s kissing Castiel back, and he reaches shaking, exhausted arms out, clutching almost desperately at Castiel’s bare sides, holding onto him, waiting for that wall in his mind to come crashing down and releasing all those demons he struggled to lock up earlier.

                But nothing happens. All the darkness in Dean’s mind, the bad memories and phantom aches, stay locked away where they belong, and after a few minutes, Dean opens his eyes, startled, and stares at Cas’s face.

                Castiel opens his eyes too, and he smiles a little when he sees Dean’s expression, placing his hand on the side of Dean’s neck, brushing his thumb over the edge of his jaw.

                With a swallow, he regards Dean with an overwhelming amount of affection. “I’m so proud of you,” Cas says softly, and although Dean really doesn’t understand what that means, he still exhales shakily and feels the nerves he hadn’t noticed before slowly wilt and die in his gut.

                Without another word, Dean and Cas stand up from the bed, Dean’s legs wobbling a little before he finds his footing. Cas strips the soiled sheets and blankets off of the bed, and Dean spots wet patches in the pillow where his tears soaked into the fabric. Dean just stands there awkwardly while Cas runs downstairs really quick to start a load of laundry, and then Cas returns and takes Dean’s hand, dragging him to the bathroom where they both step into the shower and slide under the warm spray of the water.

                They stay in there cleaning each other off, washing each other’s hair, and kissing lazily, until the hot water runs out and turns cold. It’s when they’re both finally out of the shower, skin pruning as they shiver and dry themselves off with too-soft towels, that Dean wants to blurt it out.

                He’s known that he loves Cas for a while. Not just love, but he’s _in love_ with Cas. And for some reason, right now when his nerves are rubbed so raw and he’s pleasantly sore, he wants to say it. More than any time before, he wants to say it.

                But then Cas gives him a brief peck on the lips and slips out of the bathroom to run downstairs and switch the sheets over to the dryer, and Dean shakes himself out of the momentary insanity. He’s already laid enough of his craziness on Castiel tonight, he doesn’t need a love confession to top that all off. He’s not trying to scare the poor guy away, for Christ’s sake.

                So Dean just wanders, exhausted, to Castiel’s bedroom, and smiles when Castiel offers him the pair of sweatpants Dean always wears to slip on over his bare legs. They lay there talking in the bed, staring up at the origami crane mobile, until the dryer dings downstairs. By now, Dean is a little less sore, although his legs are still shaking, so he helps Cas remake the bed with the warm, fresh-from-the-dryer sheets, soft and smelling of lavender.

                Dean thinks to himself that tonight is different somehow. Tonight, Dean faced his horrible memories, and he didn’t break. Tonight Dean realized that Alastair doesn’t rule his mind, his sanity. And he’s going to be okay. God, he’s actually going to be okay. And maybe Cas will be okay too. Maybe they’re both not as broken as they originally thought.

                Dean shivers when they finally crawl into the freshly clean bed, wrapping themselves up in the blankets and in each other, limbs tangled, Dean’s back pressed snuggly to Cas’s chest. Content.


	38. The Gravedigger's Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much for being so patient with me you guys <3 Here's the next chapter, finally. I know it's been a while. To those of you who have been asking, my mom is doing a lot better now. Some of you asked what happened to her - basically, she was out in the yard doing work and got her head sucked into the motor of a power tool (her hair got caught up in the blades and pulled her in) which landed her with a really serious brain bleed that's been taking up a lot of our family's time and energy to help her through. I'm really grateful to you guys for being so patient and waiting for me to have the time to write another chapter between work and taking care of her. <3  
> Many of you had some very very sweet and thoughtful comments that you left on my last chapter (well, not really chapter, but my author's note thing). I have since deleted the chapter since it was just a note from myself (and with the chapter, all the kind comments were deleted too sadly), but I really just wanted to thank you guys for leaving such kind words for me. You guys really made me feel better in the middle of all the craziness that's going on in my life right now, and I wanted you to know how much I appreciate it <3   
> Without further adieu, please enjoy this chapter :) I hope it was worth the wait. I'm already working on the next one, and there are only a few left, so hopefully the next chapter be posted a LOT sooner this time :)

                _The dream begins as it always does. It's dark, and cold, and Castiel's loneliness, whatever the cause may be, has settled deep in the hollows of his stomach where it's frozen over like a glacier inside him. Numbness has replaced what was once an agonizing emotional torment._

_And it's strange, because as much as his whole being has become completely numb, it also still_ hurts _. And how is that possible? How is any of it possible? How is it possible to be so fucking numb and so anguished all at the same time?_

_Everywhere Castiel walks in the dream, he sees deer. Deer on rooftops, within the trees of the forest, hiding behind street signs, and standing on cars. And among the deer, are thousands of ropes, and dead feet. The cold, blue skin of a dead woman's feet. He knows whose feet those are, but it's almost like it doesn't matter anymore. None of this matters._

_He's not really Nathan Hautley. Even in the dream, he knows that. But it still feels so real, like someone reaching directly into his chest and ripping out his lungs. He feels the abandonment of everyone around him, the shunning, the disownment. He never knew it would be this lonely, this soul-sucking, to be unaccepted by all people._

_He walks down a dirty street in Rail Pass, all noises muffled, the crunch of his shoes hitting an old dirt road beneath him barely audible over the ringing in his ears. He wants to die, he really does, but this is only a dream. It's only a dream, and soon he'll wake up, and Nathan Hautley won't be inside his head scratching, scratching, scratching away like a fucking parasite._

_It's not Nathan Hautley at all, as much as it feels like it though. It's not him. It's Castiel. It's always been Castiel._

_When Cas wakes up from the dream, he's covered in sweat, but he doesn't scream, doesn't gasp. He just opens his eyes. And it takes hours for him to shake off the feeling of an iceberg slowly thawing in the pit of his stomach._

*       *       *

 

**_APRIL_**       

                Castiel never thought he'd be in Rail Pass long enough to see spring arrive, but here it is. He almost _wasn't_ here long enough, had Bartholomew had his way. It's still a heavy weight in Cas's heart that in just a few short weeks, he's going to be homeless, but still. The dandelion yellow of the morning sun, the crisp Granny Smith apple grass, the soft give of damp earth beneath his shoes from a recent rain. He's always loved spring. It brightens his spirits, even in the wake of yet another nightmare last night.

                He swallows back the hollow feeling inside himself and tries to put thoughts of his nightmares and his problems out of his mind for now. It's beautiful here, and whatever ugliness that happens to live inside his head shouldn't ruin that.

                The forests surrounding Rail Pass seem a lot less intimidating now that there are birds in the trees and flowers blooming in clusters among the shrubs. The fresh leaves on the branches above reflect the sunlight in a soft green glow that fills the forest gently and wraps both Castiel and Dean in a comforting blanket of earthy warmth tinged with a frosty bite as the final dregs of winter work their way from the edges of the breeze.

                "At some point, you're going to have to tell me where we're going," Cas remarks, tripping over a root as Dean pulls him by the hand through the trees. Castiel has never been in this part of the forest before - they're deep in the outskirts, far past Ghost Town and a radius of bad memories.

                "That would sort of defeat the purpose of a surprise, don't you think?" Dean replies, ducking under a low-hanging branch and holding it up so it doesn't smack Castiel in the face. Cas rolls his eyes and bumps Dean with his shoulder, the branch snapping back into place as Dean lets it go and chuckles, releasing Castiel's hand only to throw his arm around Cas's shoulders loosely, planting a kiss on his cheek.

                It's two days after the school dance, early on Sunday morning - too early for Dean's standards, but Castiel didn't feel like laying around his house any longer than he had to this morning, so he'd gone over to Dean's and knocked on his bedroom window, jolting Dean out of a heavy sleep while the time was still in the single digits and the dew was still fresh on the grass.

                Whereas Cas had plans to take Dean to breakfast somewhere in town, the moment he'd told Dean that he'd had another nightmare, Dean led him into the trees instead and away from the promise of food, telling him he had a surprise for him. That was almost an hour ago, and now they're still walking through the woods. At this point, Castiel suspects that Dean is lost and just unwilling to admit it.

                "My stomach's going to fall out of my ass, I'm so hungry," Cas grumbles, and Dean barks a laugh.

                "Stop being so dramatic, we're almost there," he replies, sliding his hand down Cas's spine and smacking him once on the butt before skillfully darting away so Castiel can’t retaliate.

                Cas snorts, dodging another low branch and brushing a string of moss off the shoulder of his Yellowstone National Park t-shirt. He chews on his lip and watches after Dean as the green eyed boy wanders ahead, seemingly scouting out landmarks that Castiel doesn't recognize to find his way to wherever they're going.

                This morning had been the worst one yet for Cas. There’s nothing particularly different about today that would have made it that way, but for some reason, it was just rough. He’d woken up too early from his nightmare, and had spent nearly an hour simply wandering around his quiet house. Anna had still been asleep upstairs, and without her music or talking or the TV playing, the inside of the house was stifling.

                Castiel has never considered somewhere his _home_ , not until Rail Pass. And yes, logically he knew that someday he would have to leave, that someday this would end. Everything good always does. But it still _hurts._ It hurts that he has to say goodbye, even if it’s just a house. Because it’s _not_ just a house. It’s a place in his life that’s absolutely _drowning_ in memories. Every little thing, from the dust bunnies caught in the vents due to the heater always breaking, to the scratch on the wooden floor from that time Gabriel brought ice skates over and tried to race Kevin down the hallway, to the permanent stain on the wall in the kitchen from where Bartholomew threw his plate of apple cobbler on Christmas, to the little droplets of condensation caught between panes of glass in the living room window seat.

                It’s funny. Ever since Naomi told Castiel that he’s being kicked out after graduation, Cas had felt this sense of _longing_ inside him. This little blue Victorian house on Cooledge, in Rail Pass, Vermont is his _home_. It’s where he found himself. It’s where he found family, and friends, and even love (and who _knew_ Castiel would _ever_ find that?)

                This morning, wandering aimlessly around his house, just… _remembering_...it was the hardest morning he’s had yet here. Having to stand there in the quiet warmth and comfort and _remember_. Remember the first time he and Dean had sex under that roof, on the kitchen counter with shattered dishes on the floor around them. The time Castiel gave his friends the origami angels on Christmas. The time they threw him that surprise birthday party and they had the food fight in the kitchen. The time Castiel woke up and found Dean bloody and covered in dirt asleep in the bed next to him.

                Memory is funny that way. Even things that were horrible and heartbreaking at the time somehow become twisted into good memories as time passes. Especially if it’s all about to be taken away.

                Castiel swallows past the dryness in his throat, blinking out of the fog and looking around the forest. Dean glances back at him and seems to notice how quiet Castiel has become. He slows down and waits for Cas to catch up to him before reaching down and lacing their fingers together.

                “You alright?” he asks, and Castiel looks over at Dean’s face, the way his freckles stand out on his cheeks, flushed from the spring bite. His expression softens and he smiles a little.

                “I’m fine,” he replies, even though it’s only half true. With Dean here, he’ll always feel better.

                Dean doesn’t look like he believes him, but he doesn’t say anything further on the subject. Instead, he nods his head towards the sunlight cutting through the trees ahead. “It’s just a little further, come on,” he says, pulling Castiel along again.

                Their shoes sink into the soft forest floor as they tread, and even though Cas has never been out here before, it all still carries that sense of familiarity that he feels now when wandering through the parts of the woods closer to the town.

                That is, until they reach a small break in the trees and Dean drags him into a clearing with an old, abandoned house barely standing in it’s foundation in the middle. Castiel stops, his eyebrows shooting towards the sky as he takes in the sight of the dilapidated structure, the sagging front porch, the vines and moss crawling up the wooden sides, the pile of moldy bricks that were once a chimney. What glass that’s left in the window frames is shattered and jagged, stained with black, and as Castiel looks closer, sooty streaks of black blemish the wood and shutters still visible beneath the vines and overgrowth.

                Dean waits patiently for Castiel to take it all in, busy pulling another lollipop out of his pocket and tucking it in his cheek to stave off the craving for a cigarette. The faint smell of artificial cherry wafts beneath Castiel’s nose.

                His blue eyes scour the small clearing, spotting what must have once been a gravel road of some sort, now covered in weeds and freshly sprouting trees. A pair of squirrels dart from a bush behind the ruined house and scramble frantically up the trunk of another tree towards the other side of the field.

                Cas cocks his head to the side. “What happened here?” he asks, and Dean snorts, dragging Castiel along again towards the house.

                “There was a fire,” he replies, and then pauses, looking over at Castiel before adding, as more of a statement than a question, “You didn’t read all the stories, did you?” Castiel’s brow crinkles in confusion and he eyes the broken, burnt shell of a house as they get closer.

                “What stories?” he asks, narrowing his eyes skeptically, “You’re not planning on having sex inside there, are you? I don’t want to be chased through the woods by another man with a shotgun.”

                Dean throws his head back and laughs. “That’s always gonna be my favorite sexual escapade.”

                Castiel huffs a little laugh, raising an eyebrow. But before he can say anything more, Dean reels him in by the hand and steps behind him, covering Cas’s eyes with both of his calloused hands. Castiel stutters to a stop, reaching up to try to pull Dean’s hands off his face. “Um, Dean?”

                Dean chuckles, leaning in, his lips brushing Castiel’s ear as he says, “Trust me. Just take a few more steps forward.”

                Castiel would roll his eyes if they were open right now. “Dean, you know I hate surprises.”

                “Just keep walking you wuss,” Dean snorts, and Castiel sighs, allowing Dean to push him gently along. He feels Dean nudge him around the side of the house a few more steps, and then they stop. Castiel waits a few seconds, but instead of Dean uncovering his eyes, Cas suddenly feels Dean’s lips at the side of his throat. Dean kisses his neck once, and then nips his skin lightly with his teeth right over the tendon running down the side of Cas’s neck, the stick of the lollipop poking him a bit.

                Castiel yelps a little and nudges Dean in the stomach with his elbow. “You said you had a surprise for me!” he scolds, and Dean chuckles mischievously.

                “Sorry, I couldn’t resist,” he replies, his voice slurred from his lollipop. The cherry smell makes Castiel’s mouth water, and suddenly the idea of having sex somewhere in that dilapidated house doesn’t actually sound half bad. But he pushes those thoughts aside with a little disgruntled sound.

                Dean laughs again. “Alright, alright grumpy. You ready?”

                Castiel nods slightly, and a couple seconds later, Dean removes his hands from over Cas’s eyes. Castiel blinks a few times, squinting into the sun, and when he looks down, what he sees only serves to confuse him even more than he already is.

                “You brought me to a graveyard?” he asks, although it’s not really a _graveyard_ per se. There are only two old-looking headstones before him, with the pieces of what must have once been a little fence that surrounded them. As far as headstones go, they’re unremarkable. Simple gray rock, fading words carved into the front, crawling with weeds and overlong grass.

                Although he doesn’t see it, Castiel knows that Dean rolls his eyes. “Look closer,” he says, and Cas blinks, squinting towards the two headstones. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the morning sun shining gently into them, but when he finally sees what the graves say, he feels his stomach sink a little.

                They only have the names and the dates carved into them, nothing else. No small paragraph about the people buried six feet beneath their feet, no carvings of angels or crosses, no flowers. Forgotten.

                **HAUTLEY**

In big, bold lettering. That’s all there is to indicate that these two people existed. Just, HAUTLEY.

                Castiel takes a step forward, staring down at the graves. Neither of them even specify _which_ Hautley belongs to which. They both simply read Hautley. No Elsa, or Nathaniel. And for some reason, that saddens Castiel. Maybe even more than it saddens him that this gravesite is clearly forgotten of, that no one really even knows or remembers that it’s out here. Not even Castiel knew, despite all his research on the Hautley’s before he moved here.

                He stares down at the graves for a few minutes, completely silent - not only confused, but somewhat sad too. And isn’t that funny? That he should feel sad right now? Why does he feel sad? He never knew Nathan and Elsa Hautley, only their story. Only what his mind has _made_ of their story. And even then, he doesn’t know their _whole_ story, just the tragic end of it, the skeleton of it. Just the adultery and the suicide and the madness, nothing more. Just like everyone in this town knows nothing more.

                When he’s quiet for a few minutes, he hears Dean shift behind him and clear his throat a little.

                "You...you told me that you had another nightmare, and...I don't know. I figured maybe bringing you out here would do some good, you know?" Dean says, hesitating before coming forward and standing beside Castiel instead of behind him, "Like, if you're actually being haunted by Nathan Hautley, bringing you to the graves would be a good place to put an end to it, right?"

                Cas swallows, the stray memory of the "ghost hunt" Gabriel took he, Charlie, and Kevin on back in November crossing his mind. He huffs a little laugh when he remembers that, how ridiculous the four of them were just wandering around in the woods half-frozen to death in the coming snow.

                "Gabriel tried to make the nightmares go away once too," he says, and Dean looks over at him, head cocked curiously, as if to indicate for Cas to continue. Cas glances at him and then back down at the graves, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans despite the spring warmth. He feels a little sick for some reason. "He, Charlie, Kevin, and I went out and tried to find Elsa Hautley's ghost in the woods one night, like confronting her spirit would put a stop to my bad dreams," he continues, smiling a little when Dean barks a laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea.

                "What happened?" Dean asks, sticking his lollipop back in his mouth and looking down at the graves too. Cas feels a little knot form in the pit of his stomach as he remembers exactly what put an end to the ghost hunt that night. That Dean came crashing through the trees bloodied and terrified after being attacked by Alastair.

                Castiel looks over at Dean, his sharp profile as he tongues his candy and studies the graves. Dean glances at him when he notices Cas is staring, and Cas realizes he's still waiting for an answer to his question.

                With a hard swallow, Cas just shakes his head a little. "Um...Kevin got cold, so we ended up just going home after a few hours of wandering around," he replies. It isn't exactly a _lie_ , but there's no need to bring up the real reason they left the woods that night, not when Dean is in a good mood today.

                Dean chuckles at that, his eyes darting all over Castiel's face for a moment before he sighs and closes the distance between them, sidling up behind Castiel again and wrapping his arms around Cas's middle, resting his chin on Cas's shoulder and inhaling slowly as the two of them look down at the graves. They're quiet for a couple minutes, just listening to the birds and the bugs, the breeze combing through the freshly budding leaves.

                Castiel eventually tears his eyes away from the graves and looks up at the house again, the blackened shell of someone's memories.

                "Was the fire here an accident?" he asks, and Dean glances at the house too, not taking his chin off Castiel's shoulder.

                "No," he replies, "Bobby told me that some folks from town came out here and set it on fire after Nathan Hautley finally bit the dust."

                Castiel's brow crinkles. "Why?"

                Dean shrugs. "He was a disgrace to the town I guess," he replies, "According to Bobby, the town's priest was the only one who cared enough to arrange for Nathan's burial after he died. The rest of the town saw him as a cheating bastard...which he kind of was."

                Castiel huffs a little breath. "How does Bobby know all this?"

                Dean laughs. "Bobby knows everything there is to know about everything, man. Trust me. Even if he doesn’t believe in all that spooky ghost legend crap."

                Castiel hums, leaning back into Dean's chest. Dean feels the gesture and tightens his hold around Cas's stomach, tucking his face closer to Cas's neck and rocking him a little, aimlessly, like the breeze it's what's pushing them. Castiel chews on his lip for a moment, thinking to himself, and then pulls in a breath. "I thought Nathan Hautley fled town after Elsa hung herself in the woods."

                "He did," Dean replies, "At least, according to the stories. But he came back years later, looking for forgiveness from God or some shit like that. The priest that helped him find that forgiveness was the one who chose to bury him out here with Elsa when he kicked the bucket."

                Castiel glances at the house again. "And this was their home? Nathan and Elsa?" he asks.

                Dean shrugs again. "Yeah. The townspeople burned it as some kind of _cleansing_ ritual or something," he replies, "Like cleansing Rail Pass of sin."

                Castiel chews his lip again, lowering his eyes back to the graves. They look so innocent and even sort of beautiful in the calm morning sun, no one would ever assume that the people decaying beneath were so tragic. Castiel doesn't know why, but he reaches up and wraps his hands around Dean's on his stomach, just holding onto them like he's grounding himself. Which is a little silly, because this has nothing to do with him, this place. And yet, he feels like he's connected to this somehow, even if he knows his dreams are all just a fabrication. A translation of something completely unrelated to all of this.

                "How come we've never been out here before?" he asks suddenly, and Dean smacks his lips around his lollipop again, switching it to his other cheek so the stick isn't prodding into Castiel's neck.

                "Nobody ever comes out here," he replies, "Most people forget the graves are even here. I just never thought to bring them up until you told me you had another nightmare."

                Castiel hums again in understanding and leans back into Dean's chest more, basking in the warmth of his skin through their clothes. The heat of the sun shining down on Castiel's face doesn't really feel very warm right now, not when the graves are in front of Cas too. But Dean is warm, and he's here right now, and that makes this feel okay, even if Cas feels a little sick at the sight of the headstones.

                "Do you wanna say anything?" Dean asks, "Or...do something? I don't really know how to stop a haunting, but I figured here would be a good place to start."

                Castiel huffs a little laugh again. "Honestly?" he replies, "I don't think I'm being haunted by Nathan Hautley, Dean. I don't think my nightmares have anything to do with Hautley at all."

                Dean is quiet for a moment, and then pulls his hand free from Cas's to pluck his lollipop out of his mouth. The red candy glitters in the sun like a crystal. "Is that you or Cara talking?"

                Castiel chuckles again, looking at the lollipop in Dean's hand as he says, "Very intuitive."

                Dean snorts, shrugging. "Well, I've been mind fucked by Cara once or twice myself. I know the stuff she says. And I know you went to her to talk about your nightmares a few times after we got back from Hope."

                Cas pops his eyebrows and licks his lips again. "Cara told me nearly the same thing you told me in Maine about these nightmares. That they're my mind's way of translating my emotions, like some sort of coping mechanism."

                Dean doesn't say anything for a moment or two, instead tossing his half-eaten lollipop on the ground in front of the graves, the red gleaming in the too-long grass and dirt. When he wraps his arm around Cas's stomach again, Castiel immediately places his hand overtop Dean's, running his fingers over the scars on Dean's knuckles, tracing the shapes that he's memorized by now.

                "What else did Cara say?" Dean asks.

                Castiel sighs, shrugging again. Maybe it should feel weird talking about this, but for some reason it doesn't. Not with Dean. "She told me that she doesn't think my nightmares have anything to do with Nathan Hautley at all," he says, "The Hautley story was just something that my mind latched onto, like a code to filter my real problems."

                Dean cocks his head. "Like you had a mental breakdown?"

                Castiel huffs a little breath. "Something like that," he replies, "Cara thinks it's depression, or repressed emotions working their way to the surface. Like a splinter."

                Dean bites at the skin on his lips for a moment, his chin still resting on Castiel's shoulder, body a warm and solid presence at Castiel's back. "So you're depressed," he surmises, nodding a little.

                "I don't _feel_ depressed," Cas replies, "But...I suppose if I've never gone a day _without_ being depressed, the depression would just feel kind of...normal."

                Dean hums. "So all your nightmares, all the Hautley crap...that was all just your mind's way of trying to tell you that you're depressed? I was right?"

                Castiel snorts a little laugh. "You're very pleased with yourself right now, aren't you?"

                Dean chuckles in reply. "Well...I mean, you've been through the ringer Cas. It's not really much of a surprise that you're fucked up in the head," he says, "Hey, I'm fucked in the head too, alright? But we're getting better. That's what people do. Eventually they get better."

                Castiel sighs, and he feels Dean turn his head to look at the side of his face. After a couple moments, Dean lifts one of his hands and runs his fingers through Castiel's hair. Cas melts back into him, shivering a little at the feeling of Dean's blunt fingertips stroking his head. He feels Dean smile against the side of his neck and Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, trying to forget for a while that they're both so completely and utterly screwed up. Because at least they have each other, right? At least they have each other, and so many people at their sides to help them. At least they _can_ get better.

                When Castiel opens his eyes and looks down at the graves again, he still feels sick at the sight of them, but it's not that bad anymore. Coming out here and seeing the final resting place of the Hautley's really did help, even if Castiel doesn't know why. Maybe he came out here to say goodbye to Nathan Hautley. Maybe it's time.

                Castiel's brow furrows as he looks at the graves. "Do you...do you think we'll ever end up like them?" he asks, and Dean's hand pauses in his hair.

                "What, dead?" he asks, "Of course not dude. But the time we grow up, someone'll have invented a drug for immortality. I guarantee it."

                Castiel snorts. "No, idiot," he says, "Do you think we'll ever end up as just another tragic love story?"

                Dean huffs a little laugh again, removing his hand from Cas's hair and placing it on his midsection once more. But then he seems to realize that Cas is serious, and he raises his eyebrows. "To be fair Cas, what Elsa and Nathan Hautley had wasn't really a love story," he points out, "It was a shitty relationship. Nathan was a cheating douche and Elsa was a nut."

                Castiel pops his eyebrows at that. He supposes every love story has the potential to turn out that way, but maybe Dean is right. "So you don't think we'll end up broken?"

                Dean is quiet for a moment, and then sighs, unwinding his arms from around Castiel's stomach and turning him around so they're facing each other. He takes Castiel's face in both hands and gives him a soft look.

                "Never," he replies, "Alright? I promise that'll never happen."

                Castiel stares at Dean for a moment, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that they're already pretty broken on their own as it is. But he believes him. He believes Dean anyway. And like the passing of a storm, he feels something calm inside him that he didn't even know was twisted. His gaze softens and he leans in, pressing his lips to Dean's. Dean tastes sweet like cherries from his lollipop, and Castiel chases the flavor for a few minutes before breaking away and sighing, resting his forehead against Dean's.

                The growling of his hungry stomach shatters the moment however, and Dean chuckles a little breathlessly.

                "Come on, let's go grab something to eat in town before you pass out, you nut job," he says, and Castiel rolls his eyes, taking Dean's hand again and allowing him to lead the way back across the clearing and through the woods.

                Castiel glances back at the burned house and the graves once more before he and Dean slip into the trees, and for some reason, he has the feeling that his nightmares about Nathan Hautley are left floating back there somewhere too. For some reason, he knows that he's not going to have nightmares about Hautley anymore. Sure, maybe he'll have nightmares about everything else, but here and now, he's saying goodbye to the story of Hautley. And _God_ , what a relief it is.

 

*       *       *

 

                It’s over an hour later by the time they make it back to the heart of the town, and despite Castiel’s protests that Dean is going to die young from some sort of heart condition from all the terrible food he eats, they stop by the McDonald’s near Crowley’s apartment and get square slabs of hash browns and egg sandwiches for breakfast before heading back to Hautley’s Bend.

                The park is empty when they get there, which suits both of them just fine, and they lay out on the fresh, early spring grass to eat and bask in the sunlight. The grass is soft like velvet, and still damp, but they don’t care. Something about the way the sun cocoons the park and their skin in a gentle protective warmth settles something inside Castiel.

                Dean fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and drops it on the grass so he can lay on his back without having it press into his ass. Licking grease from his hash browns off his thumb, he settles onto his back and flings an arm over his eyes, laying there stretched out, golden and content. Castiel watches him as he finishes the last of his egg sandwich, and then crumples up their trash and walks it to the bin on the edge of the sidewalk near the public restrooms.

                When he returns to the patch of grass, Dean hasn’t moved, and Castiel flops down onto his stomach, mindlessly picking up Dean’s wallet and fiddling with the contents, more aimlessly than anything else. Dean peeks at him from under the crook of his elbow as Castiel starts rifling through his things, and then purses his lips and shrugs, closing his eyes again and settling into the grass.

                Dean has a few crumpled twenties in his wallet, as well as a couple expired gift cards and, to Castiel’s surprise, some food stamps. He supposes he really shouldn’t be too surprised. From what Dean has told him, John Winchester only works here and there, certainly not enough to support his family more than his liquor habits. They need to afford food somehow. Castiel fiddles with the food stamps for a couple of moments, and then sets them aside with the gift cards.

                Dean shifts and pulls another lollipop out of the pocket of his jeans, plucking the wrapper off and sticking it in his mouth. This one is purple, and the faint scent of grapes wafts through the air. Castiel smiles and leans forward a little, planting a kiss on Dean’s smooth cheek and startling him a bit. Dean peeks out from under his arm again and squints at Castiel in the sunlight.

                “What was that for?” he asks.

                Castiel smiles softly at him as Dean stuffs the wrapper of the lollipop back in his pocket. “I’m proud of you,” Cas says, “You haven’t smoked in so long. I know it’s hard.”

                Dean snorts. “Yeah, well, my teeth are probably gonna fall out pretty damn soon with all this sugar, so don’t get too excited.”

                Castiel rolls his eyes and Dean grins at him around the stick of the sucker before closing his eyes again. Cas digs around again in the mostly-empty wallet, listening to the birds chirping in the trees. A few spare quarters fall out of the zipper pouch on the inside of the wallet, landing in the grass, sparkling silver. Castiel almost thinks the wallet is completely empty until he suddenly spots the tiny corner of something sticking out of the inner-most pocket. Crinkling his brow, he grips the little corner and pulls it out.

                It’s a photograph, old and faded and creased, but Castiel instantly knows who the people in the picture are. The little boy he recognizes because of his eyes: Dean. He’d know those eyes anywhere. The woman behind him, with her arms wrapped around his shoulders, is unmistakably Dean’s mother. Castiel recognizes her not because he’s seen her in photos before, but because of her eyes as well. The shape of her jaw, her lips, even her hair. She and Dean look very alike, and before Castiel knows it, he’s smiling a little.

                He stares at the picture for a couple minutes. It’s one of those pictures that’s obviously well-loved. It’s been pulled out and put away so many times it’s faded like paint in the desert, been touched and adored and stared at. Castiel peeks at Dean and studies the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the gentle slope of his nose that’s a little bent in the middle like it’s been broken before. Castiel wouldn’t be surprised of Dean’s nose _has_ been broken before, with the kind of life he leads.

                Cas wonders if he and Dean ever would have met had Dean’s mother not died. Would Dean have been a bully had his mother been there to put an end to that path? Would he be so angry and so twisted inside like Castiel is had his father not turned into the monster he is since Dean’s mother’s death? Castiel wonders how different things would be if that one single car accident hadn’t happened in Dean’s past. If Dean hadn’t caught fire, if his mother hadn’t burned.

                Same as Castiel wonders how different his own life would have been if he’d been born to parents who had an interest in being a part of his life. How different would both of their lives be if neither of them had been made to live through such tragedies? If neither of them were so damaged?

                Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek as he considers this. As he considers how so many horrible circumstances led to he and Dean meeting, to falling in love. And Castiel knows he needs to stop thinking like this. Cara even told him during his therapy sessions that he needs to focus on healing. Castiel still isn’t completely sold on the idea that he has depression, and that he’s had depression for a very long time. But even if he’s not convinced, he still needs to focus on healing, because something _is_ wrong with him. Just like there’s something wrong with Dean. And both of them need to focus on healing now. There’s nowhere to go but up from here.

                Castiel thumbs at the photograph in his hands, wondering why his mind always takes him on this downward spiral all the time. It takes so little to trigger him into thinking about every little possible thing he can think about. He just wishes he could stop _thinking_ for two seconds and relax.

                “Cas?” Dean says suddenly, shattering the silence, and sending Castiel’s thoughts scattering like the flock of crows, to Castiel’s immense relief.

                Cas blinks. “Hm?” he asks.

                Dean shifts his arm away from his eyes and cracks open one eyelid, peeking up at Cas. “You’re doing that staring thing again,” he states.

                Cas stutters, surprised, and then chokes out a little laugh, looking back down at the photo in his hands. “Sorry,” he replies, “I can’t help it.”

                A fond smile crosses Dean’s face and he huffs a little breath, closing his eye again. “It’s cool, I know I’m hot,” he says, and Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean doesn’t even see the movement, but he knows Castiel rolled his eyes and he chuckles, white teeth flashing from behind his full lips, tongue stained purple from his candy.

                Castiel studies the photo in his hands for a couple more seconds and then squints at Dean’s face. “You really do look a lot like her,” he says, and Dean cracks open his eyes again. He looks confused for a moment before he glances down and sees the picture in Castiel’s hands.

                A somewhat wounded expression flits across Dean’s face for a split second, and then disappears into a calmer, more reserved look. Castiel almost regrets bringing it up at all, since it always saddens Dean to think about his mother, but before he can apologize, Dean rolls onto his stomach, pulling his sucker out of his mouth and twirling the stick in between thumb and forefinger, looking down at the purple candy.

                “She used to do this thing when I was little where she would blow raspberries on my stomach when I was throwing a temper tantrum,” Dean says, huffing a little laugh, “When I dream about her, sometimes it’s not about the fire. Sometimes it’s just about her and those stupid raspberries.”

                Castiel’s brow crinkles and he cocks his head to the side slightly, rolling Dean’s words around in his mind for a moment. “Why raspberries, of all things?” he asks finally.

                Dean looks up at him, the corner of his mouth twitching for a second before he barks a laugh. “Not _actual_ raspberries Cas,” he snorts, “Haven’t you heard of blowing a raspberry on somebody?”

                Castiel squints at Dean in confusion, and Dean looks at him for a second before rolling his eyes, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees and tossing his lollipop aside. Castiel utters a small sound of surprise when Dean all but _tackles_ him then, rolling him onto his back. But Cas doesn’t have enough time to really fight him off before Dean pulls up the front of Cas’s t-shirt and pressing his lips to his stomach, blowing hard on his skin, making a loud vibrating sound that forces an undignified squawk of surprise out of Castiel.

                Dean laughs when Castiel tries to roll out from under him, and then holds him down and does it again. By the time Dean has blown against Castiel’s stomach at least half a dozen times, Castiel is blushing furiously and laughing unnecessarily loud. Dean lifts his head away finally, grinning from ear to ear, and crawls up Cas’s body, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

                “And _that_ , my strange, uninformed boyfriend, is a raspberry,” he states.

                Castiel rolls his eyes, pulling his shirt back down over his vibrating stomach and glaring half-heartedly up at Dean through the last strings of his laughter. “I don’t see how that in any way resembles a raspberry.”

                Dean fixes him with a look, shaking his head. “There’s just no hope for you man,” he replies, leaning down and planting a chaste kiss to Castiel’s lips before rolling over and sighing, flopping onto his back and staring up at the baby blue sky.

                Castiel lays there for a moment, their shoulders pressing together, and he compares the warmth of Dean’s skin through their clothes to the mild heat of the sun shining gently down on them. It only takes a few minutes before Castiel lifts the picture up again, the little photo still clutched between thumb and forefinger. He holds up the little square of paper so that the sun is shining through it, making Dean and his mother’s faces glow beautifully.

                He looks at it for a while, trying to imagine how different Dean’s life was back then. Funny that Dean is still so young, and yet he can separate his life into _then_ and _now_.

                Castiel feels Dean shift a little next to him, and when he glances over, Dean is looking at the picture, chewing on his lip like he’s considering something. It only takes a few moments for Dean to pull in a little breath, tearing his eyes away from the picture to look over at Cas instead.

                "You uh...you wanna meet her?" Dean asks suddenly, hesitantly, gnawing on his lower lip so harshly that Castiel is worried it might bleed.

                His brow furrows in confusion, because Dean's mother is dead, so how is Castiel supposed to meet her? But he trusts Dean, and even if he doesn't completely understand, the look in Dean's eyes is careful and guarded, like he's teetering on the edge of trust. So Castiel doesn't question it. He just nods slightly, reaching up and pressing his finger to Dean's lower lip to pull it out from between his teeth. It's swollen and red, blood pumping just below the surface.

                "Okay," he replies, and Dean's throat ripples with a hard swallow before he gives Cas a lopsided smile. The careful expression in his eyes morphs very suddenly to mischievous then, and before Castiel can stop him, Dean flops over on top of him again, tearing his shirt up and blowing yet another "raspberry" onto Castiel's bare stomach. Castiel's shout melts into laughter and he shoves Dean off of him, both of them chuckling as Dean scrambles to his feet, reaching down and helping Cas up from the fresh grass, wiping a few blades of it off the back of Cas's rumpled shirt.

                  Castiel doesn't really ask where Dean plans to take him. He just allows Dean to sling his arm over his shoulders and lead him along. By the time they arrive at Dean's house, it's closer to eleven in the morning, and when Dean opens the front door, there's soft clanging from the kitchen like someone is rifling around in the fridge.

                For a moment, Dean pauses where he walks, assessing the house carefully, almost like he's accustomed to weighing the situation before walking into his house every day. And honestly, from what little Castiel has heard of Dean's father, and what little he's actually seen of Dean's father from the one time they've met, he can't really blame Dean for being so careful.

                Instinctively, Dean steps ahead of Castiel, pulling Cas behind himself like a protective barrier, although Cas really doesn't think that's necessary. When they step down the hall to the kitchen doorway, John Winchester is bent over peering into the fridge, shoving a few things aside. When he straightens up again, there's a beer in his hand, and he twists the cap off, tossing it in the sink with a ringing clatter before taking a swig.

                Dean clears his throat slightly and John turns around mid-drink, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sees Castiel there.

                "Morning dad," Dean greets, and John lowers the beer as he swallows, his lips making a little suctioning sound at the edge of the bottle mouth.

                "You're up early," John comments, his eyes flitting from Dean to Castiel and back. Cas shifts uncomfortably, but says nothing, eyeing the man. Dean's father isn't nearly as intimidating in the daylight. Castiel can see a lot more of Dean's features in the man's face when there's sufficient lighting, although not nearly as many similarities as Dean has with his mother.

                He's wearing ratty gray sweatpants that look like they've seen better days, and a wrinkled Led Zeppelin t-shirt, something similar to the sort of shirts Dean wears. The man is a bit more haggard looking than Castiel remembers from the night he and Dean returned from Maine, although that could just be because John just woke up. His hair is messy and unevenly trimmed, and his salt and pepper stubble could use some shaping up as well, but all in all, to anyone who didn't know the truth, he just looks like a harmless middle aged man on a Sunday morning.

                Apart from his eyes, of course. Those are hard, practically ancient, like Dean's. Like he's seen too much.

                Dean clears his throat again in the awkward silence, taking a step forward into the kitchen. His hand lets go of Castiel's wrist, and Cas glances down at the faint white impressions of Dean's fingers on his arm as they bleed back to red. He hadn't even realized Dean was holding onto him. Licking his lips, he steps forward into the kitchen after Dean.

                "I was wondering if we could borrow the car keys?" Dean asks, "I thought Sammy might wanna go down to the river mouth outside of town for the afternoon."

                John takes another long swallow of his beer, his eyes never leaving Dean's face. He seems to be studying him, looking for the lie that Castiel knows is there. But after a half a minute or so, he seems convinced enough and he gulps as he swallows his beer.

                "Keys are in my room," he says, nodding his head towards the hallway, "Good luck waking your brother though, he's been out cold all morning."

                Dean nods once, hesitating for a moment before uttering a small, "Thanks," and turning. He takes Castiel's hand, starting to pull him along to the hallway, but Castiel stops.

                "I'm good here," he says, and Dean glances at him, giving him a look. Castiel just shoots him a reassuring smile, and Dean dares a brief glance at his father before giving Castiel's hand a little squeeze.

                "You sure?" he asks, and Castiel snorts.

                "I'll be right here," he replies, "I'm sure my face isn't the first thing Sam wants to see in the morning anyway."

                Dean huffs a little breath before sucking his lower lip into his mouth again. Without thinking, Castiel reaches up and presses his fingers to it again, pulling the tender skin out from between Dean's teeth before he bites a hole. Dean's cheeks heat slightly, and he glances halfway at his father, not quite meeting the man's eyes before swallowing hard, the corner of his mouth lifting briefly.

                "Gimme like two minutes," he says, squeezing Cas's hand again before turning and heading down the hall. Castiel stands there awkwardly for a moment, listening to Dean's heavy footsteps on the cheap floorboards as he heads down the hall. When Cas glances at John again, the man is eyeing him with a furrowed brow and a slight frown. He doesn't look _angry_ necessarily, more befuddled.

                Castiel looks at him for a moment, before glancing at the small kitchen table. "Do you mind if I sit?" he asks, and John's eyebrows raise momentarily before he grunts in reply, nodding his head towards the flimsy chairs as he takes another swig. Castiel notes with some surprise that the beer is already drained, and John tosses the empty bottle into a plastic bin by the counter, pulling open the door to the fridge to grab another.

                "I don't think I've ever seen anybody make my boy blush like a damn virgin before," Dean's father remarks, opening his new beer and flicking the metal cap towards the sink again. It sails sparkling through the air with expert precision, and lands with another clatter.

                It's Castiel's turn for his eyebrows to shoot towards the ceiling, and he flushes red himself a little bit as he takes a seat at the table, the chair creaking under his weight. He's not sure what to say, so he just sits there in silence, watching John as John watches him, taking a long swallow of beer. The smell of the alcohol is somehow just a part of this house - the aroma of it clings to the walls and tickles Castiel's nose.

                When John realizes that Castiel isn't going to say anything, he narrows his eyes a bit again, taking a step to the side and leaning back against the island counter, crossing his legs at the ankle. Even though it shouldn't be, Castiel finds that stance somehow intimidating in a way. This man is comfortable where he is. This is his home, his turf. And although Castiel didn't come here today with the intention of threatening that alpha male attitude, for some reason it feels like John is asserting his ownership anyway.

                "Let me ask you something, Castiel. That's your name right?" John says, and Cas is surprised that John remembers who he is. They met once, yes, but it was only once. And John wasn't exactly in his best mind at the time. He was wasted, and it was dark, and he was angry because of the vandalism to his house.

                But Castiel swallows back his initial surprise and clears his throat. "Alright," he says.

                John licks a stray drop of beer off his lip before leveling Castiel with an impressive glare that would have probably affected Cas a lot more had he not seen it so many times on Dean's face too, once upon a time.

                "What exactly are you doing with my son?" John asks, and Castiel cocks his head a little in confusion. Down the hall, there's a creak, and then Dean's footsteps head closer towards Sam's bedroom door.

                What's that supposed to mean? Cas assumed it was obvious. He and Dean are together. It's natural for teenagers to have significant others that they bring home to meet the parents. Castiel is confused, but he tries to answer to the best of his ability.

                "I care about him very much," he replies.

                John stares at him with a little hum, his beer clutched in hand, a calculating look in his eyes. Castiel doesn't know what else to do besides stare back. He's not really sure where this is going, but he certainly doesn't expect John to say what he does.

                "If you hurt him, you'll answer to me, you hear?" the man growls. It sounds like a threat, and it is, but Castiel can't help it. His eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling yet again. He doesn't say anything on the subject, but he finds it a little ironic that it's John Winchester saying this to him. John Winchester. The man who's put more bruises and scrapes on Dean's body than any other. The man who's hurt Dean more than any other person on the planet. And he's threatening Castiel right now.

                Cas isn't sure whether he's trying not to laugh or trying not to start shouting in rage - either way, his teeth sink into his tongue briefly to stave off the urge to act on impulse. Instead, he sits up a little straighter, and says, "I'll die before I ever let anything bad happen to Dean again." He isn't just talking about all the shit John has put Dean through, but also everything Dean's been through at the hands of Alastair, and at the hands of Dean himself. He'll do anything if it means Dean will never see the end of a cigarette or the back of a hand ever again.

                It's John Winchester's turn to look confused, but before he can say anything more on the subject, Dean appears with a rumpled, tired-looking Sam in tow, the keys to the car hooked over his thumb.

                "Ready?" he asks, and Castiel stands.

                "Of course," he replies, glancing at Dean's father again. He and John share a heavy look, and Castiel isn't quite sure how to interpret it before he looks away, pushing in the chair and crossing the crackling linoleum floor towards Sam and Dean. Sam gives him a lopsided, tired smile and Castiel nods at him in greeting, reaching down and taking Sam's backpack for him, slinging it over his shoulder so that Sam won't have to carry it in his half-asleep state.

                "Thanks dad," Dean says once more before they turn towards the front door.

                "I want you back before dark," John calls after them, and Dean glances back.

                "Yes sir," he calls over his shoulder, the words rolling so naturally off his tongue it's like Dean has uttered them a thousand times.

                He opens the front door, and together the three of them slip out of the house. The air outside seems fresher all of the sudden, less cloying and weighted with threats and danger. Castiel doesn't understand it. It's like Dean's house _itself_ is alive and reeking of dread, when really it's the man in that kitchen, in his sweatpants and t-shirt, drinking his beer.

                Dean leads the way to the small, detached garage across the gravel driveway, and together the three of them climb into the Impala, a grin spreading across Dean's face the second the engine roars to life.

                "Missed you baby," he says, running a loving hand over the dusty dash before cranking the car into reverse and backing down the driveway. Dean must have already discussed what was happening with Sam, because Sam doesn't even question it when he's dropped off in front of a pleasant-looking white and purple Victorian house similar to Castiel's. An angelic looking girl stands from the wooden swing on the front porch as Sam opens the back door and climbs out, dragging his backpack with him.

                "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Dean calls after him, and Sam ducks down so he can fix Dean with a look before waving and closing the door. Castiel watches as the little girl and Sam meet up at the bottom of the porch stairs, and she leads him into the house, their hands intertwined.

                "Who is that?" he asks, and Dean snorts as he eases the car away from the curb.

                "Jess," he replies, "Sammy's future _everything_ according to him. She's sweet."

                Castiel smiles slightly as the little house disappears in the rearview. "They're beautiful together."

                Dean huffs a laugh. "They're _twelve_ dude."

                Castiel rolls his eyes, settling back into the seat, the leather worn and loved. He sees Dean glance at him out of the corner of his eye, and then Dean chuckles, lifting his arm.

                "C'mere," he says, and Castiel glances at him, pausing before smiling a little and sliding across the bench seat to press against Dean's side. Dean settles his arm around Cas's shoulders, running his fingers mindlessly along Castiel's upper arm, raising goose bumps on Cas's skin. Castiel smiles slightly as he stares out the front window, watching the town roll by.

                Dean drives them to the small grocery store off of Main Street near Bobby's shop, and Castiel's confusion grows as they head inside. He's still waiting for Dean to explain what he means about introducing Castiel to his mother, but he doesn't ask any questions. He'll figure it out once they get there. This morning has been full of surprises anyway - no need to spoil this one. Although hopefully this one will be better than going out to the Hautley's graves.

                He and Dean pick out some made-to-go sandwiches and other snacks at the store, "for a picnic" Dean explains, and then they head back out to the car, tossing the food in the back seat. It's only when they reach the edge of town and head out onto the open road that Dean finally asks, "What did my dad say to you?"

                Castiel glances at him at an awkward angle from where he's leaning against Dean's side again. He licks his lips, swallowing a bit, and then shrugs. "Nothing important," he replies.

                Dean doesn't really seem to buy that, but he doesn't say anything more, gazing out the windshield contemplatively. Castiel stares at him for a moment, and then his brow crinkles slightly. He pulls in a breath to speak.

                "You father cares a lot about you," he states, and Dean glances at him. It's true though, Castiel realizes. As shitty of a father as John Winchester has been, he never would have threatened Castiel the way he did this morning if he didn't care about his son.

                Dean doesn't look like he believes that, which doesn't surprise Castiel all that much. But it was worth saying out loud.

                Dean huffs a little breath, something between a chuckle and a choke, and then pulls his lower lip into his mouth once again. Castiel rolls his eyes and arches his neck up, pressing his lips to Dean's and using his own teeth to gently pry Dean's lower lip out of his mouth. He kisses the swollen flesh tenderly and then trails kisses down Dean's sharp jaw before settling against his side again.

                Dean looks at him for a moment, and then chastely presses a kiss to Cas's temple before reaching forward and shoving a cassette into the slot. Some sort of guitar riff that Castiel vaguely recognizes from the music Dean put on his iPod starts up, and Castiel makes himself comfortable, unsure how long this car ride will be.

                He doesn't roll his eyes or comment upon the fact that Dean doesn't believe him when Castiel says that John Winchester cares. Why should Dean believe that? Why now? Instead, Castiel just adds that to the ever-growing list of things in his head that he and Dean need to work on. They'll work on it. That's all they can do over time. Work on themselves, and heal.

 

*       *       *

 

                It finally dawns on Castiel what Dean meant about meeting his mother when they arrive over an hour later at a graveyard far on the edges of the Vermont forest. He feels all at once incredibly stupid and a little sad when Dean pulls the Impala off to the side of the road and parks in front of a sign that reads _Green Valley Cemetery_ in bold, wooden writing. It makes sense now why Dean didn't tell his father the truth about where they were going with the car today. From what Castiel gathers, Dean's mother is the one subject in that family that they never bring up voluntarily, for fear of the repercussions from John Winchester.

                When Dean cuts the engine, everything seems too quiet, but at the same time very peaceful. The graveyard is beautiful. It's remote, but seems well kept, all things considered. The grass is that same gentle, peridot green as it is back in Rail Pass with the fresh coming of spring, and the trees gathered in clusters throughout the stretch filter the sunlight in a way that gives the whole graveyard a calming, golden glow. Even the headstones themselves don't seem ominous or dark - they're all light shades of marble or cement, engraved with loving phrases and pictures of the deceased that Castiel can't quite make out from where he and Dean are still sitting in the car. It's quite the contrast from the way the graves this morning looked out near Nathan Hautley's old charred estate.

                Castiel sits up from where he's been leaning against Dean this whole time, and peers out the front window for a moment before looking over at Dean's face. Dean is eyeing the graveyard warily, looking a little pale and sickly. When he realizes Cas is staring at him, he blinks and looks at him, the corner of his mouth lifting in a tiny smile like he's embarrassed.

                "Sorry," he says, clearing his throat and scanning the graveyard again, "I just haven't been here in a while."

                Cas cocks his head. "How long?"

                Dean swallows and huffs a little laugh. "Since I was six," he replies hesitantly, and Castiel's eyebrows lift in surprise.

                He reaches over and wraps his hand around Dean's where it's still gripping the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles are chalk white. Cas rubs his thumb over the taut tendons on the back of Dean's hand. "We don't have to do this, you know," he says.

                Cas feels bad for him - Dean was so sure that he wanted Cas to come out here with him a couple hours ago, but now that they're here, it's different.

                But Dean just shakes his head a little and looks over at Cas, forcing a small smile. "She would wanna meet you," he says, and Castiel returns the smile with a small one of his own. He nods his head.

                Dean is the first to exit the car, and Castiel slides out after him. Dean takes his hand and leads him out across the grass, weaving in and out of graves and clusters of trees, passing a mausoleum or two that look like they've been there for hundreds of years. For all Castiel knows, they have been - this is the East coast after all.

                He knows the exact moment that Dean spots his mother's headstone, because his hand tightens around Castiel's. Cas looks over from where he was gazing off into the distance at a particularly tall grave in the shape of a pyramid, and his eyes fall upon a simple, polished stone a dozen or so paces ahead with **Mary Winchester** carved in delicate letters on the front.

                Dean's footsteps falter briefly, but he never stops walking, for which Castiel is proud of him. It takes a lot of guts for Dean to come out here again, especially if this is the first time he's come back to this graveyard since his mother's funeral. When they stop in front of the headstone, the two of them just stand there for a countless number of minutes, staring at it in silence. The grave has the usual words on it, like any other grave, about how Mary Winchester was a loving mother, daughter, friend and wife, but this _isn't_ just any other grave.

                That's Dean's mother somewhere beneath their feet. That's the woman who brought Dean into this world. And seeing her grave up close and in person pounds that fact straight into Castiel's skull so forcefully that he's left reeling with the sudden influx of emotion. He can't even _imagine_ how this must be for Dean.

                When he glances over at Dean's face, Dean looks calm. His jaw is set in a stiff line, but other than that, he just seems sort of far away, staring down at Mary's grave. Castiel thinks maybe Dean is having a conversation with her, in his head. It's probably not the first time Dean has done that, so Castiel doesn't say anything, doesn't interrupt. It takes a while, of the two of them standing there in complete silence, the gentle breeze raking through the trees like fingers through hair, the soothing whisper of it wrapping them up in the peaceful quiet.

                When Dean eventually moves, it's almost like he's snapping out of a daze. He blinks, clears his throat, and looks over at Cas, staring at him for a second before giving him a little smile. He hesitates, and then his brow furrows.

                "We forgot to grab the food from the car," he says suddenly, and it's the first thing he's said in over fifteen minutes.

                Castiel chuckles, squeezing his hand once before letting go. "I'll go get it."

                Dean grabs his arm. "No, no, it's okay," he says, waving his hand towards the grass, "Sit. I'll just run and grab it really quick. It doesn't seem like it, but this graveyard can get a little complicated. I don't want you to get lost."

                Castiel rolls his eyes and snorts. "Speak for yourself. You're far more directionally challenged than I am."

                Dean sneers at him and flicks his nose, leaning in and stealing a brief kiss before turning and walking away, a little too fast for Castiel's comfort. He watches Dean's back disappear among the graves and trees, hands tucked tightly in the pockets of his jeans even though it's warm out.

                Dean needs a minute. He's running away.

                Castiel sighs, looking back down at Mary Winchester's grave for a moment before glancing around himself and finding a soft looking patch of grass to sit on. He sinks down and leans his back up against a grave opposite to Mary's, getting comfortable, grimacing at the wet spot forming on the back of his jeans from the damp ground. When he makes himself comfortable, he sighs again, yawning and letting his head thump back against the stone behind him.

                His exhaustion catches up to him then, a product of his lack of sleep from the night before. He hopes more than anything that going out to see the Hautley's graves today will put an end to these nightmares he's been having for so long. Something tells him he's done having such dreams, but there's always that nagging fear that they'll return. Castiel always has _something_ to fear anyway.

                Rubbing his forehead, he reads over the words on Mary's grave again, to distract himself from his own mind. And for some reason, even though he's surrounded by the dead right now, it feels a little awkward sitting here in silence, like he just walked into someone's dining room when he wasn't invited.

                Sitting up again, he hugs his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them.

                Clearing his throat, he says, "My name is Castiel."

                He instantly feels silly for saying anything at all. His voice seems to break the peaceful harmony of the graveyard. But Dean brought him out here to meet his mother, so isn't it natural that Castiel introduce himself?

                He wracks his brain for something to say, because now it feels a little weird to just sit here and say nothing when he's already told Mary his name, even though Mary is definitely not going to reply.

                He licks his lips. "Um...it's nice to meet you...officially," he says, his eyes tracing the letters of her name, "Well...not really officially, I suppose. But you probably understand."

                He pauses, glancing down at the grass and reaching to pick at a few of the baby blades with his fingertips.

                He purses his lips in thought before speaking again, lowering his voice a bit. "I haven't really outright told this to anyone yet but...I think I'm in love with your son," he says, smiling shyly at the headstone, feeling a red blush stain his cheeks even though no one alive is listening to him right now, "You really did a very nice job raising him for what little time you had with him, Mrs. Winchester. He's...god, he's perfect. You'd be really proud of him I think."

                Castiel smiles, huffing a small laugh. "He's doing well in school now, although I'm sure you already know that. And he takes care of his brother with a fierce loyalty that I've never really encountered until I moved to Rail Pass," he says, pulling his lower lip into his mouth and gnawing at it for a moment in thought, "I just...I just want you to know that I'm never going to let anything bad happen to Dean, ever again. I promise. He means more to me than you probably realize."

                Cas rubs a hand through his hair, messing it up a bit, feeling a warm pool of affection blooming in his chest. He wonders if this is what it felt like for Dean to be in the presence of his mother when he was a child. To feel warm and content, even when you don't really know why. Castiel basks in the feeling, and wonders mindlessly whether this is Mary Winchester letting him know that she's here and she hears him.

                He's not sure whether he actually believes in that sort of thing, but he keeps talking anyway. Because if Dean's mother is truly here right now, listening to him speak, Castiel wants more than _anything_ for her to know what an amazing son she's brought into this world. What a brave, loyal, beautiful, mindboggling person she created.

                So Castiel talks. He tells Mary all about what Dean's been doing in school, and all about the school dance, and about their vacation to Maine, and even a little bit about Dean's struggles recently, but how he's been working on it and getting better, same as Cas. Castiel tells her about how fortunate he feels to have met Dean when he did, how he thinks that he probably would have lost his mind at some point in the last several months if it hadn't been for Dean being there keeping him together. He tells her that Dean has become his family, and that even if his own family is distant and invisible, Dean will always be there and Castiel _knows_ that now, and that's something that he wishes to god that Mary could see for herself - how amazing her son is. How amazing _both_ her sons are. And how he promises with every fiber of his being that he's going to take care of them, keep them safe and protected, if it's the last thing he does.

                Castiel sits there in the grass talking for nearly twenty minutes. By the end of it, he doesn't even realize what he's saying anymore, or even realize that he's talking at all. He gestures widely with his hands when he gets excited about something he says, and asks Mary questions even though she can't answer. By the time he realizes that it's been nearly twenty minutes and Dean hasn't come back from the car yet, Castiel is out of breath and practically drowning in affection and happiness, and _god_ , no wonder Dean speaks of his mother so reverently. Talking to Mary Winchester is like taking your first breath of sweet, fresh air after being caught in a cloud of smoke. It's like magic.

                Castiel lowers his hands, smiling a little as he looks at the headstone. His eyebrows press together slightly after a moment, and he turns to glance behind himself, wondering where Dean is.

                He nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees that Dean is standing right there, not five feet away, clutching an old ratty quilt and their grocery bag with their picnic lunch in it, just staring, frozen in place. Castiel cocks his head to the side and pushes himself to his feet, brushing damp blades of grass off the butt of his jeans as he takes a step towards Dean.

                Dean looks away from the grave and into Castiel's eyes, and it's only then that Cas realizes Dean has a couple tear tracks running down his freckled cheeks. But he doesn't look sad. There's a mix of confusing emotions flitting across his face, but none of them are sad. So Castiel just gives him a tiny smile and nods towards Mary's headstone.

                "I think she likes me," he states, stepping forward and planting a soft kiss on Dean's wet cheek.

                Dean huffs a watery laugh, sniffing a little and looking down at the items in his arms. He uses the shoulder of his shirt to wipe at one of his tear-tracked cheeks, and then walks forward. Castiel helps him spread the quilt on the grass so they can sit without getting their pants wet, although it's a little late for Castiel.

                When they open their drinks, Dean raises his to his mother's headstone briefly, and then takes a long swig. Castiel smiles as he does it, and together the two of them sit there, side by side, telling Mary Winchester about everything tragic and beautiful that's happened in the past, and everything they dare to hope for in the future.

 

*       *       *

 

                When Dean crawls into bed later that night, at his own house instead of Castiel's for once, he immediately fishes Castiel's composition notebook out from under his mattress. Not because he's feeling sad, but because he's feeling happy for once. Most of the drawings and pages of writing he's dumped into this notebook have been the musings of his insane mind, dark and twisted thoughts translating themselves into angry, ugly, painful drawings and streams of consciousness.

                But tonight, for one of the first times ever, he feels alright when he opens the notebook and flips through the drawings. He's nearly at the end of the notebook by the time he reaches a clean page. There are only a few empty pages left, and then Dean will either have to give this notebook to Cas, or start a new one. He's not actually afraid anymore, about Cas seeing what's drawn and written inside this notebook. It's always been a notebook for Castiel, but as time has gone on, it's become more of a diary than anything for Dean, and it's _damn_ personal. But he's not as scared anymore about Castiel seeing what's inside. Cas has seen pretty much every part of Dean now, inside and out.

                Dean grabs a pencil from the drawer of his nightstand, laying on his mattress on his stomach and just starting to draw. He doesn't really know what he's drawing until he's halfway done with it. When he does realize though, he blushes furiously, despite the fact that he's alone in his room late at night.

                His wedding day. He's drawing his wedding day. He never thought he'd even _have_ a wedding day. For some reason, that was just never in the cards for him, and he never really expected to meet anyone who he could possibly imagine spending the rest of his life with before he met Cas. He didn't even think he would _live_ long enough to have the option of a wedding. But here he is, alone in his bedroom late at night, fantasizing about his own wedding day, marrying Castiel, with everyone he loves out in that crowd, happier for him than they've ever been.

                He draws a beautiful open hall - not a church, he'll never be caught dead getting married in one of those - and a crowd of all the people he loves. Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Sammy, even John. And at the center of them all, his mother. Beautiful and angelic and _alive_ , like she should be on his wedding day. And she's giving Dean away to Castiel. And everybody is _happy_.

                It's almost too cheesy to leave in the notebook by the time he's done drawing it. He even writes down what his _vows_ would be for fuck's sake. He stares down at the lead scratches and the smudges, at his own smiling face and Castiel's, all of it too much of a fantasy to even seem real. Like a pipe dream. He almost reaches down and tears the drawing out to crumple up and throw away, but just as his fingers are grazing the corner of the page, ready to trash it, he stops and just stares at the sketch.

                And damn it, it may be cheesy, but it's what he _wants_. Someday. He's still young, he's just a stupid kid, but he _wants_ this. He wants that dumb apple pie life with Cas, with one and a half kids and a white picket fence, and the entire vinyl collection of Metallica obviously. He wants it bad, and he wants his mom to be there too.

                With a hard sigh, he closes the notebook, leaving the too-cheesy, too-unrealistic drawing tucked safely between the hard covers. Tossing his pencil aside, worn down to a nub, he tucks Castiel's notebook away and buries his face in his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut. And he tries not to feel stupid about drawing shit like that. And he tries not to miss his mom. And he tries not to let himself crave some sort of comfort like a cigarette or Castiel.

                He tries not to let himself think at all.


	39. Intoxication

                A few days later, Castiel finds a letter in the mail when he gets home from school. It’s an acceptance letter to Johnson State College. For nearly ten minutes, he stands in his kitchen staring at it, reading it over, confused and shocked at first, and then overwhelmingly ecstatic and scared. He forgot he even applied to Johnson State. It’s been months, and he hasn’t actually gotten around to applying anywhere else. He’s been occupied with everything else happening in his life right now, he hasn’t even been thinking about the fact that he could be leaving for college in a few months.

                He’s all at once excited and terrified. Excited because _holy shit he’s actually going to college_! But he’s scared suddenly because, what if he can’t afford it? What if he can’t take out enough student loans? What if all of his friends leave and go to other prestigious universities and he only gets to see them once or twice a year? Where will Anna go? What about Dean?

                God, how is he supposed to just move on with his life? What about everyone else? He’s never had _people_ before he moved to Rail Pass, and now that he does, he feels an overwhelming responsibility to stay and make sure they’re all okay.

                The sound of brakes squeaking outside snaps Castiel out of his thoughts, and he walks over to the living room window, peering out. Missouri is just getting home from work at the K-8 school, Anna and Jesse climbing out of the back seat with their bags, chattering excitedly about something Castiel can’t make out through the glass.

                Cas watches as Missouri shoos them inside and they all disappear into her little house next door. When he hears the muffled sound of her door closing, the little mail flap clinking at it settles back into place, Castiel looks down at the letter in his hands again, reading it once more.

                He needs to talk to Missouri. She’ll know what to do. She always knows what to do.

                Folding the acceptance letter back up, trying not to feel so proud of himself (because honestly, it’s _Johnson State_. It’s not the most difficult college in the world to get into, but damn it, Cas is actually prideful) he steps out the front door of his house, cutting across the side yard to Missouri’s. He passes by the front living room window and Anna spots him, opening the front door for him before Cas can knock.

                Castiel smiles and returns her hug when she throws her arms around him, and then kicks off his shoes, ears perking at the sound of gentle clattering coming from the kitchen. He nudges Anna back towards the living room where she and Jesse are busy unpacking some books to do their homework beneath the rabbit foot collection, and then crosses the front hall to the kitchen. He ducks under the doorway and dodges a new cluster of herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry, looking up as Missouri turns around at the sound of his steps.

                “Thought you were spending time with Dean this afternoon,” she says by way of greeting, smiling warmly at him and giving him a hug that somehow _always_ make Castiel feel better. Missouri already has flour on her hands – Cas has no idea how she manages it.

                “He got a call from his brother and had to go home,” Castiel explains, standing on the other side of the island counter and watching Missouri pull out random ingredients from little nooks and crannies in the kitchen that _shouldn’t_ have enough room for this many ingredients, “I think their father was in a bad way again.”

                Missouri raises an eyebrow. “When is that man ever _not_ in a bad way?” she muses, more as a statement than a question. Then she stops, eyeing the letter in Castiel’s hand before raising _both_ her eyebrows at Cas. “You have something to tell me?” she asks.      

                Castiel glances down at the letter, and then clears his throat a little, holding it out to her, a small smile tilting his lips even as wariness pools in his eyes. She wipes her hands on her fuzzy purple sweater, staining it with handprints of flour, and then takes the letter, reading it over. She takes her time, and Castiel stands there fidgeting, picking up random things from the counter and fiddling with them so he doesn’t have to watch Missouri’s face.

                He certainly doesn’t expect Missouri to suddenly step around the counter and throw her arms around him again in one of the tightest hugs Castiel has ever gotten. She laughs as Castiel falls into her, and then hesitantly winds his arms around her too, waiting for her to say something.

                When he pulls away, she holds onto him by the shoulders and shakes him once. “Why aren’t you more excited sugar?”

                Cas lifts one shoulder in a little shrug. “I _am_ excited, but…” he replies, trailing off for a moment before pulling in a breath to speak again, “What about all my friends? Anna? Dean? Am I supposed to just leave them behind?”

                Missouri actually rolls her eyes, and she whaps him on the side of the head lightly. “Castiel, Johnson State College is less than an hour away,” she points out, “And all your friends will be leaving for college too. It doesn’t mean you have to stop being friends.”

                Castiel’s eyebrows pull together with worry. He can’t imagine losing these friends when he’s grown so comfortable with the idea of _having_ friends in the first place. “I’ve never had real friends before,” he says pathetically, “But, the people I knew in the past…we always lost contact the second I moved away. What if that happens now?”

                Missouri purses her lips and fixes him with a look. “If you think that’s actually going to happen, then you’re nine kinds of crazy,” she scolds, and Castiel deflates a little. Maybe she’s right. It’s not like Johnson is all that far away from Rail Pass. Anna would still be here since Bartholomew decided to keep the house, and Missouri would take care of her. He knows that Gabriel is taking a year or two off before college, so he’ll be here, and Kevin is still a junior, so he has another year of high school unless he graduates a semester early like he plans. Cas doesn’t know where Charlie and Dorothy are planning to go, but as he thinks about it, the idea that they would stop talking to him just because of a little distance is actually absurd sounding.

                He lowers his eyes, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thinks about it. When he looks up again, Missouri is waiting with raised eyebrows, and _finally_ Castiel lets himself smile. Missouri grins when she sees it.

                “There’s that excitement I was looking for,” she laughs, and Castiel smiles wider.

                “I’m going to college,” he says, and Missouri nods, coming forward and wrapping her arms around him again.

                “You’re going to college,” she agrees, and squeezes him tighter, “I’m so proud of you. You did so well.”

                Castiel blushes a little, but allows himself to wind his arms around Missouri, gripping her purple sweater and burying his face in her shoulder, feeling very small even though he’s taller than her. He wonders what his parents would say if he told them. Would they be proud too? Would they help him pay for it? Would they even answer the phone if he tried to call them, or is he already disowned enough that they’ll simply pretend like he doesn’t exist?

                And then Cas stops for a second. He shouldn’t have to ask himself these types of questions when it comes to his _own_ parents. He shouldn’t have to worry about whether they’ll actually answer the phone or not if he calls. He shouldn’t have to wonder and fret about whether they’ll be proud of him for something that they _should_ certainly be proud of him for.

                As he stands there and hugs Missouri, he suddenly realizes that, even though the sting of Naomi and Bartholomew’s rejection and disownment is still a fresh wound inside him, he doesn’t _need_ them. He has Missouri. And he has everyone else in this town. He has their acceptance, and he doesn’t need the acceptance of the people who brought him into this world.

                He holds onto Missouri for far longer than he intends to, but Missouri just stands there and lets him, almost like she knows exactly what sort of hurricane is going on inside Cas’s head right now. When he finally clears his throat and pulls away, she catches his face and pats his cheek, smiling at him warmly like he’s her own son, and not just the weird, emotionally damaged neighbor boy that moved in less than a year ago.

                When she finally steps away, Castiel feels warm and excited inside, and he wants to tell Dean. He needs to tell Dean that he got into college. Because Dean will be proud of him too, and Dean will hug him, and Castiel will be able to cling to his boyfriend and breathe in his smell and reassure himself that it’s _okay_ to take this next step in his life. Even if he has to live on the streets to go to college there, he’s moving to Johnson in the fall.

                Missouri walks over to the kitchen table where her purse is, and fishes around inside, pulling out a one hundred dollar bill. Castiel’s eyes widen comically as Missouri places the money in his hand.

                “Don’t give me that look,” she scolds, “I want you to ride into town and pick up whatever you want for dinner tonight. We’re having a celebration.”

                Castiel starts to protest, tries to give the money back, but Missouri shuts him up in two seconds flat. “I don’t want to hear any excuses,” she says, closing his hand around the money, “Go. You’ve earned it.”

                Castiel feels his cheeks heat impossibly red at her generosity, and he chews his lip, giving her a small smile. He doesn’t quite know how to thank her, but she waves him away, giving him a look that suggests she doesn’t want to hear him say thank you. She just wants him to get whatever he wants for dinner. And for some reason, Castiel just knows that she’ll be unhappy if he comes home with anything that costs less than this hundred dollars in his hand. God, he doesn’t even think he’s _ever_ held a whole one hundred dollars in his hand before.

                He gives her a tiny smile, and turns, ducking out of the kitchen and stepping into his shoes again. Anna and Jesse look up as he passes by the living room, and Castiel lets them know he’ll be right back. He leaves and crosses the side yard again, grabbing his bike and climbing aboard.

                The ride through the streets is peaceful and crisp. It’s still early in the afternoon, so the streets are relatively empty, save for a jogger here or dog walker there. Castel passes by Hautley’s Bend and can hear the creaking of the swings and the merry-go-round as the breeze pushes at them gently, warm spring air soothing the last of Castiel’s nerves.

                He passes the turn he would normally take to get to Dean’s house, and before he even realizes it, he’s brought his bike to a halt, looking back. He should tell Dean that he got into Johnson State College. Dean would want to know. Castiel debates to himself whether he should go to the grocery store first, or Dean’s house, but then decides that he’ll vibrate out of his skin if he doesn’t tell Dean the good news _soon_.

                With some awkward fumbling, Cas turns his bike around and rides back up the street, turning down the road that leads to Dean’s house. These back road neighborhoods are quieter as they weave further into the forested areas of town and away from the more populated parts near Main Street. Cas lets his eyes scan the trees as he bikes the familiar route to the Winchester home.

                It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to get there. The old squash lady who lives next door to Dean is standing at her front window, an oddly concerned look on her face, a little pug with a bow around its neck in her arms. Castiel eyes her in confusion as she stands there, and he pulls his bike off to the sidewalk, dumping it on the edge of Dean’s front lawn.

                He doesn’t have much time to be very confused about the fact that the squash lady looks so concerned, because the second Cas takes a few steps closer to the house, he hears it.

                The shouting.

                Cas eases to a halt a few feet away from the stairs leading to Dean’s front door. The shouts are muffled at first, but there are heavy footsteps and some clattering, and then the shouting gets louder, like whoever is screaming is getting closer to the front door.

                Castiel just stares at the beaten up old wood of the Winchester’s front door, trying to decide whether he should leave and come back later, or walk inside right now and put an end to this – because he _knows_ what’s going on in there.

                He and Dean were leaving school this afternoon, not thirty minutes ago, when Dean got the phone call from Sam. The only explanation Dean had given before taking off through the trees towards his house was that John Winchester was drunk again. It’s weird, seeing the whole story now.

                Usually, Castiel only sees the _before_ and the _after_ when it comes to the things Dean has to go through with his father. Castiel sees the worry and the fear that happens before Dean has to run home and help his brother, and usually, the next day, Castiel will come to school and find Dean with a new bruise or a split lip, trophies of the fight.

                But this time, Cas is actually _here_ for the fight. He climbs the few little stairs to the front door of the house, standing on the little stoop and staring at the wood, fighting with himself about whether or not to get involved as the shouting and crashing continues inside. He wonders if Dean would be upset if Castiel just walked in and tried to put an end to this. He wonders if that would make Dean mad. He wonders if John Winchester would come after _him_. If he’d be angry enough to beat on somebody who wasn’t his own son for a change.

                Cas has no idea how long he stands there on that front stoop. It could be minutes, it could be hours. But the fight continues inside, fluctuating in volume. Castiel can hear the distinct pitch of John Winchester’s voice, deep and angry and wrathful. John does most of the shouting, but every few minutes, Castiel hears Dean’s voice shouting something back, and more clattering like there are things being thrown. Something even hits the other side of the front door at one point, making Castiel jump in surprise.

                He _almost_ turns away, _almost_ walks back to his bike and rides into town. Dean has asked him more than once not get involved when it comes to his family. Dean has asked him more than once not to call the police, or tell anyone. Cas even finds himself standing here with his hand halfway in his pocket, thumbing at his cell phone, wanting desperately to call the cops, if only it will put an end to this mess.

                But Dean’s words echo in his mind, the things he said to Cas when they were huddled together in their motel bed in Maine. About how John Winchester doesn’t need to be punished – he doesn’t need to be thrown into a jail cell and made to feel like a scumbag. Because even _if_ the man is a scumbag, he’s a scumbag who’s _sick_. He needs help, rehabilitation, not punishment.

                So Castiel lets out a hard sigh, pulling his hand out of his pocket, forcing himself not to call for help, and he runs a hand through his hair. Dean’s muffled voice shouts something again from inside, and Cas is just about to turn away, abide by Dean’s wishes and not get involved, when he hears the distinct sound of flesh on flesh. The smacking sound itself isn’t what has Castiel throwing open the front door, but the little yelp of pain that he hears Dean makes following it.

                Cas shoves his way into the Winchester’s house before he even knows what he's doing, the front door swinging open, and he’s just in time to see John Winchester backhand Dean so hard across the jaw that Dean’s head smacks into the wall behind him, bring Dean to his knees.

                Immediately, blind rage washes over Castiel, and he rushes forward with the intention of helping Dean up and perhaps killing his father. Both Dean and John look up in surprise as Castiel simply bursts into their house without invitation. But before Cas can get very close to the fight, Dean holds up his hands.

                “Cas, wait!” he says, and Castiel looks away from where he was glaring daggers at Dean’s father down to where Dean is pushing himself shakily to his feet. There’s a little trail of blood coming from the corner of his mouth, and a small gash above his eyebrow. Castiel stops in his tracks, breathing hard, blood boiling, ready to turn John Winchester’s face into pulp.

                “Th’hell d’you think y’are breaking in here?” John snaps at Castiel, in a quieter voice than he was using before, although not any less furious.

                Castiel glances at the man, and Dean holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

                “Dad, c’mon,” he says hoarsely, “Lemme just get you to bed, okay?”

                John is busy glaring at Castiel as Cas glares at him, but to Cas’s surprise, it seems the presence of another person in the house, taking a peek behind the curtain, is enough to keep the man from hitting his son anymore. And that’s alright with Castiel, even if _nothing_ about this alright.

                Without waiting for any sort of go-ahead, Dean takes his father’s arm gently, glancing at Castiel for a moment before looping John’s arm over his shoulders and helping the drunken man to his bedroom down the hall. John seems as angry as before, but much more compliant as what looks like drunken exhaustion catches up to him. The larger man leans heavily on his son for support as Dean drags him to the last door on the left and pulls him inside.

                When they disappear from sight, Castiel takes a few breaths in an attempt to calm himself down, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists with anger. He glances around at the mess in the house. One of the chairs in the kitchen is on three legs, and there are some random books and objects laying around on the floor where they shouldn’t be. When Cas looks back at the front door, he sees a little wooden angel statue laying there on the floor. That must have been what hit the door while he was still standing on the other side.

                He hears muffled voices from John Winchester’s bedroom, and it takes nearly five minutes before Dean finally emerges again, pulling the door shut carefully and raising weary eyes to Castiel’s face. They stand there for a second staring at each other, and then Dean walks forward, looking actually a little _embarrassed_ , of all things. Cas meets him halfway, and before Dean can hug him, Cas takes his chin, tilting his head from side to side and assessing the damage. There are a few bruises freshly blooming, but all in all, this isn’t the worst that Castiel has seen Dean.

                Dean slaps his hands away gently. “Cas, I’m fine,” he says, rolling his eyes and leaning in to plant a brief kiss on Cas’s cheek, “What are you doing here?”

                Castiel eyes him carefully, and when he doesn’t answer, Dean rolls his eyes again, wiping at his bloody forehead with the back of his hand as he steps around Castiel and raps his knuckles against Sam’s bedroom door.

                “Sammy? You okay?” he calls, keeping his voice low so John doesn’t hear. It takes a minute, but eventually the sound of a lock clicks, and then Sam opens the bedroom door, his cheeks stained with tears, a little bit of blood smeared under his nose. Castiel feels his stomach tighten at the sight, just as Sam spots him.

                “Cas?” he asks, “When did you get here?”

                Castiel swallows, stepping out of the way as Sam grabs Dean’s hand and Dean leads him down towards the bathroom at the end of the hall. “I…I just came to see if you wanted to go to the grocery store with me,” he says. It’s not completely a lie, but he figures now wouldn’t be the best time to spring the good news about Johnson State onto them.

                Dean glances back at him, the corner of his mouth quirking in an amused smile. “You’re such a dork,” he chuckles, and Castiel melts a little in relief. At least Dean isn’t mad that he’s here.

                He follows them into the bathroom, the sound of John Winchester already snoring coming from the closed bedroom door across the hall. It baffles Castiel that the man could already be asleep when just minutes ago he was screaming at the top of his lungs. But he supposes alcohol can have that effect on people.

                He closes the door behind them and locks it without Dean even having to ask, and he watches as Dean lifts Sam up onto the counter so he’s sitting next to the sink. He pulls out a washcloth and wets it under the faucet, cleaning up Sam’s bloody nose quickly but gently. He reaches under the sink and pulls out a shoebox full of different colorful boxes of Band-Aids.

                “Pick one,” he says to Sam, and Sam fixes him with a look, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes to wipe away the last crusty remnants of tears.

                “Dean, I don’t need a Band-Aid,” he says, “It’s just a bloody nose.”

                Dean rolls his eyes. “Just pick one smart ass, it’ll make you feel better,” he says, and Sam snorts, leaning over the box and taking far too long to pick one out. He ends up selecting a Band-Aid with little _Toy Story_ characters on it. Castiel is happy that he actually recognizes them – Jesse made Cas sit down and watch _Toy Story_ with him one afternoon from start to finish. Twice.

                Dean secures the bandage right over the bridge of Sam’s nose, and Sam looks at it cross-eyed for a moment before snorting and jumping off the counter. “I’m gonna go pack up my homework,” he says, and that sounds like a _thank you_. Dean ruffles Sam’s overlong hair and then gives him a shove towards the bathroom door. Castiel smiles a little at him and steps out of the way as Sam passes, leaving the bathroom.

                Dean turns back to the mirror and leans forward, assessing the damage to his face. He wets the cloth in the sink again, dabbing at the blood on his mouth. Castiel comes forward, reaching up and taking the washcloth out of Dean’s hand. Dean looks at him in confusion until Castiel takes Dean’s chin in hand again and tilts his face so he can dab gently at the blood. Dean shouldn’t have to be the one cleaning himself up after every time this happens. Dean should have someone who can take care of him, like Sam has Dean.

                Dean huffs a little laugh as Castiel cleans his face slowly and gently. “You look like you just swallowed a rock,” he snorts, but Castiel doesn’t laugh. He just looks up at Dean.

                “I hate this,” he says quietly, and without even having to specify, Dean knows what he’s talking about. His expression falls slightly, and he slumps against the counter.

                “Look man…it’s not as bad as it seems,” he says, although he doesn’t even sound like he’s convincing himself, “I just need to figure out a way to get him to get help for his drinking. He’ll get better.”

                Cas cocks his head to the side, pausing where he’s dabbing at the wound on Dean’s forehead. “Do you really believe that?” he asks, staring hard at Dean, “Do you really think he’d ever willingly get himself help?”

                Dean stares at him for a moment, and then lowers his eyes, sighing hard. “I’ll think of something,” he mutters, and Castiel looks at him for a second before shaking his head, finishing up cleaning Dean’s face before holding up the box of Band-Aids to him.

                “Pick one,” he says, and Dean glances at him and chuckles, rolling his eyes before grabbing a Band-Aid with a tie-dye print on it, letting Castiel secure it to his forehead over the small cut. He brushes his thumb over the Band-Aid once it’s on there, and then leans in, capturing Dean’s lips in a gentle kiss, wary of the small cut at the corner of Dean’s mouth, the swell on his jaw.

                Dean smiles into the kiss, reaching forward with one hand and gripping a handful of Cas’s too-big shirt, pressing their bodies together for a moment like he’s coming down from a high and relaxing again. They only break apart when they hear Sam moving around down the hall, and Castiel place a brief, healing kiss over the top of the Band-Aid on Dean’s head.

                “What were you fighting about?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head a little.

                “Nothing,” he says, pausing for a long moment and then turning away, dropping the soiled washcloth onto the counter, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

                Cas nods a little. “Okay,” he says, and Dean glances over at him, eyeing him carefully before smiling again, reaching over and taking his hand.

                “Let’s go to the store,” he says, snorting a little, and Cas huffs a small breath, leading the way out of the bathroom and down the hall to Sam’s room. Dean ducks briefly into his own bedroom to grab his wallet, and then the three of them head out the front door. Sam leaves his backpack behind with a little nod from Dean. By the time they get home later tonight, John will be deep in his slumber. There’s no need for them to escape to the Singer’s house tonight, or wherever else they go when things get bad.

                Cas picks up his bike where it is on the lawn, and has Sam climb onto it as Dean gives the squash lady next door a little wave and a nod, chuckling as the little pug in the lady’s arms wriggles excitedly at the sight of Dean.

                Together the three of them head off down the street together, with Dean holding one handlebar of the bike and Cas holding the other, pushing Sam along as Sam sits on it grinning, amused at being treated like a king.

                Castiel tells Dean that he got into college when they’re standing in the refrigerated section at the grocery store trying to decide which roast to pick out. Dean gets so ecstatic that people stare as he picks Cas up and spins him around, whooping triumphantly. Cas is floored by how proud Dean is of him, and when Castiel expresses his worry that they’ll be apart and Castiel will have to move to Johnson, Dean rolls his eyes and points out the same thing Missouri did – that Johnson, Vermont is only an hour or so away from Rail Pass, and Dean will be damned if he doesn’t come visit Castiel at least four times a week.

                Castiel flushes red and chuckles a little, and together the three of them pick out a good celebratory dinner to have, buying it with the hundred dollar bill Missouri gave to Cas.      

                When they get back to Missouri’s house thirty minutes later, she doesn’t even question why Dean and Sam are there too – she just welcomes them into her warm, nutmeg-scented house and tells them to take off their shoes. Anna runs up and jumps into Dean’s arms for a big hug, and Sam slips into the living room with her and Jesse to hang out while Dean and Cas duck into the kitchen to help Missouri cook.

                Missouri eyes the state of Dean’s face and clucks her tongue in disapproval, giving Dean no choice but to stand there while she examines him to make sure he’s okay and nothing’s broken. Without even asking, she lifts Dean’s shirt up, and Dean stiffens slightly as she prods gently at the fresh bruise on Dean’s ribs that Castiel didn’t even realize was there. Missouri is a nurse after all – even if she’s just a school nurse, she’s still a nurse. And she fusses. But Dean seems oddly okay with her fussing over him, even if she sees his scars from the car accident. Missouri just makes people feel safe like that.

                A couple hours later, when they all finally sit down to eat the celebratory dinner in Castiel’s honor, they squeeze into Missouri tiny kitchen and pack themselves around her table, and they spend the evening laughing at the top of their lungs and devouring the food by the barrel load. And Castiel eyes the acceptance letter from Johnson State still sitting on Missouri’s counter, and he finally lets himself _feel_ it. The pride, the happiness, the fact that he has a _future_ , and he doesn’t even know why he was so worried earlier. Because his people, the people he considers his family now, will be there for him, every step of the way, no matter if they’re living in different places.

                He reaches over and grabs Dean’s hand under the table, and they smile at each other through mouthfuls of food, and Castiel feels _good_. Despite everything that’s still wrong, from Dean’s home life, to Castiel’s parents, to his mental state...he feels _good_.

 

*       *       *

 

                When Dean and Sam get home later that night, the house is calm and quiet, a nice contrast to the way it was before. It’s dark save for the flickering blue-white-green of the television in the living room, and when Dean pokes his head in to investigate, John is passed out on the couch, a quarter-full bottle of whiskey sitting open on the table in front of him. Their father must have gotten back out of bed sometime after they left and drank more. Dean can only hope the man stays asleep through the night.

                Just to be on the safe side though, he changes into his sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt and then heads into Sam’s room to sleep in there for the night. Sam is at his desk with his little lamp on and candles lit everywhere, trying to finish up the last of his homework due tomorrow that he didn’t get to finish earlier. Dean flops back onto Sam’s bed and tucks his arms under his head, smiling a little even though his stomach aches from all the food he ate tonight.

                He’s so proud of Cas – he didn’t even know that Cas applied to any colleges, but it feels surprisingly good to know that Castiel has a plan and he’s moving ahead with his life. Dean’s never felt this happy for another person before apart from Sam. He’s never felt this full of _pride_ for another person before until now. Cas has been so down lately, with his recent counseling sessions with Cara about his nightmares, and the fact that his parents are total dicks. It’s nice that Cas has something to smile about, to look forward to. And the fact that Cas has something to smile about makes Dean feel like _he_ has something to smile about.

                He jitters his leg restlessly, but he’s not ready to go to sleep yet, so he jumps up from Sam’s bed and slips back down the hall briefly to grab Cas’s composition notebook from his room. He very carefully does not look at any of the drawings he’s made in there in the past – most of them are fucked up and depressing, with a few that are too cheesy to imagine, and several that are ridiculously pornographic. He flips to one of the last clean pages he has in the book, and without even having to ask, Sammy tosses him his little box of colored pencils.

                Dean shoots him a brief smile in thanks, and lays on his stomach on Sam’s bed, spending nearly an hour sketching out a picture of Cas at his college graduation, with a cap and gown, grinning from ear to ear, holding his diploma in one hand and Dean’s face in the other. His tongue pokes out of his mouth a bit as he draws, and he shades in all the bold lines, making the picture appear more real. He’s really thinking about considering a career in art. He’s surprised at how much he enjoys it.

                Sam perks up where he’s sitting at his desk after a while. “Oh, I forgot to tell you!” he says, and Dean glances over at him.

                “What?” he asks.

                “I got a perfect score on that family lineage project thing for Mrs. Chandler!” he says, beaming proudly, “She gave us our scores back today and I was the only one who aced it in the whole class.”

                A huge smile spreads across Dean’s face. “Well you damn well _better_ have gotten a perfect score on that stupid project, after everything you had to deal with putting it together,” he snorts, holding out his hand, “I’m proud of you Sammy.”

                Sam smiles, reaching over and high-fiving Dean’s waiting hand before turning back to his homework, tapping his pencil on his desk, but not really paying attention to what he’s doing. After a minute or two, he pulls in a breath to speak again.

                “How come the seniors at your school get to leave for summer break a week before everyone else?” he asks, and Dean snorts as he fills in Castiel’s graduation cap in his drawing with a darker shade of blue.

                “Because we’re older and wiser and we’re sick of school,” he replies, “And besides, we’ve earned it. The last week of school is like senior ditch week.”

                Sam looks over at him, huffing a little breath. “You think you’re ready to graduate?” he asks, and Dean glances at him.

                “You mean are my grades not insanely shitty anymore?” he snorts, and Sam rolls his eyes.

                “Well if you wanna put it _that_ way…” he says, and Dean chuckles, shaking his head.

                “Kevin’s been helping me out,” he replies, “You remember Kevin right? From Cas’s birthday party?” Sam nods, and Dean goes back to shading in his drawing. “Kevin’s been tutoring me for a while. I’m doing good Sammy, I got all the credits I need to graduate.”

                Sam smiles softly at him. “That’s good Dean,” he says, sounding stupidly proud.

                Dean almost rolls his eyes again, but instead deflects by saying, “And besides, the school board probably would’ve let me know at this point if I didn’t have a high enough GPA to graduate, don’t you think?”

                Sam chuckles. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point,” he says, and Dean grins, looking back down at Cas’s notebook. He holds up the new drawing, eyeing it, blowing the little flecks of loose pencil away and brushing them off of Sam’s comforter. Sam yawns, stretching, and he drops his pencil, closing his workbook, tucking it away into his backpack. Dean glances over at him.

                “You ready to go to bed?” he asks, and Sam nods mid-yawn, standing up from his desk. Dean closes Cas’s notebook before Sam can see what’s drawn inside, and as he slips out of the bed, he pulls back the comforter so Sam can climb in.

                “I’ll be right back,” he says, and makes a quick trip to his own bedroom to hide the notebook under his mattress again, yawning and switching off his light. He blows out all the candles in Sam’s room once he gets back there, opening the window to air out the smoke for a few minutes before climbing into bed next to Sam and stuffing a pillow between them. Sam mutters something between a yawn and _goodnight_ , and rolls over to face the wall as Dean reaches up and turns off his desk lamp, nearly falling out of the bed as he does.

                For once, it doesn’t take him hours to fall asleep. He stares up at the glowing stars and moons and planets on Sam’s ceiling for a little while, and then his eyes just slip closed and he’s out like a light, Sam snoring softly next to him. Dean dreams of colors. Nothing more than that – just colors. Happy, beautiful, calming colors swirling together like an acid trip (well, at least, a better acid trip than he’s ever had before). He wonders consciously in the dream if this is his mind showing him his emotions. Like if his emotions were colors, this is what they would look like today. Bright and happy, and ridiculous to be honest, because when has Dean ever been bright and happy until now?

                He’s woken with a start hours later by a loud thump coming from down the hall. Dean’s eyes fly open before his mind even catches up to the fact that he’s awake, and then he’s left reeling and dizzy with exhaustion. Groaning, he rolls over and buries his face in the blankets, trying to go back to sleep. Sam is still pressed into the wall beside him, snoring loudly through his mouth.

                Dean is almost asleep again when he’s jolted back to consciousness by another loud thump. He furrows his brow, rolling onto his back again and squinting up at the ceiling with what he imagines must be a disgruntled expression. He really hates being woken up from a good sleep.

                When another loud thump shatters the silence of the night, Dean blinks a few times and turns his head, squinting at the clock on Sam’s nightstand. It’s almost one in the morning, who the hell is making that noise? Down the hall outside Sam’s room, he hears grunting and some shuffling. That’s a familiar sound – John Winchester shifting around on the couch in a drunken stupor.

                But then another thump sounds out, followed by the deafening sound of glass shattering. Dean sits up in Sam’s bed, fully alert in an instant as he hears his father shout down the hall. _Fuck_. Dean jumps out of the bed as Sam makes a tired little whining sound, just now waking up at the sound of glass shattering. Dean is half-tempted to investigate, but he’d rather not have another fight with his dad, especially when he’s so tired.

                He quickly clicks the lock shut on Sam’s door, glancing back at his brother as Sam sits up in the bed. Dean presses his finger to his lips, silently urging Sam to keep quiet, because John’s down the hall shouting and breaking things again. Dean presses his ear to the door and listens as more loud thumps sound out, followed by another sound of glass breaking, and John shouting.

                But then, to Dean’s utter shock, he hears someone _else_ shouting. His father isn’t the only one yelling right now, and above the angry grunts and shouts of John Winchester, Dean hears another voice, more distant, shouting something in return before more loud thumps ring out.

                Dean _swears_ he hears the new voice screaming his name. What the hell?

                He glances back at Sam, who’s gone ghost-white on the bed, and he whispers harshly, “Stay here. Lock the door.”

                Sam climbs out of the bed as Dean opens the bedroom door and the shouting grows louder. He waits to make sure Sam locks it after Dean slips out into the hall, and then Dean pads quickly down towards the living room where John is drunkenly shouting at someone.

                Dean feels goose bumps prickle on the back of his neck when he hears a furious voice that doesn't belong to his father scream, “DEAN! Show your face y’fucking coward!”

                When he turns the corner to the living room, John is standing there a few feet back from the broken front window. There’s glass littering the floor, sparkling in the light of the street lamp outside and the TV still playing loops of infomercials. John is shouting at someone outside on the front lawn through the hole in the window, and there are more thumps, louder this time now that Dean is out here.

                There’s no use trying to talk to John and ask him what’s happening when John is this furious and drunk. Dean flinches a little when there’s another loud thump and then the voice outside screams his name again.

                Wait a minute…Dean _knows_ that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere.

                Very suddenly, Dean feels his blood run cold, and his face blanches white. _No_. What the hell is he doing here? Dean was having a good night damn it! Why now?

                Dean swallows back the sudden lump in his throat, ignoring the fear pooling in his chest, and he walks forward, past the living room, and opens the front door just as another thump sounds out.

                Alastair is there, standing on the front lawn in the dark, looking insane and disheveled. He’s holding an empty liquor bottle in one hand, and a rock in the other, and when Dean takes a brief moment to glance around himself, he sees fist-sized rocks littering the edges of the house. Alastair must have been standing out here throwing rocks at his house again – it would explain the loud thumping sounds, and the broken front window.

                Al’s little, crappy car is idling on the curb in front of Dean’s house, the driver’s side door hanging open.

                “Alastair, what the fuck are you doing?” Dean snaps before he even realizes it. He’s terrified right now, of course, but his anger is winning over his fear, because Alastair is doing it _again_. He’s vandalizing Dean’s house, just like he did when Dean and Cas were in Maine. And who the _fuck_ does this guy think he is, showing up at one in the morning clearly drunk off his ass at Dean’s house, after _everything_ he’s done?

                “Dean! S’been a while!” Alastair shouts, laughing and growling somehow all at once. Without any warning, he lifts his hand and throws the rock he’s holding right at Dean’s face. Dean ducks before it can hit him, stumbling back, the rock smashing into the side of his house with another loud thump. Somewhere inside, Dean can hear John still shouting angrily, and the neighbors all around them are one by one turning on their lights, peering through their curtains or coming out onto their porches to see what all the noise is.

                Dean barely registers any of that though, barely has any time to react before Alastair is suddenly right in front of him, all but _tackling_ him to the ground. Dean shouts in surprise, but Alastair is so drunk, he probably doesn’t even realize that he’s here right now. Dean doesn’t have time to do anything but lay there before Alastair swings and lands an impressive punch across his face.

                When Dean lifts his arms to defend himself, the liquor bottle still clutched in Alastair’s hand comes swinging towards his face next, and Dean blocks it with his forearm.      

                “Get off!” he shouts, kicking out and thankfully knocking Al off of himself. Alastair falls to the side, and struggles to his feet again, throwing the bottle in his hand at Dean. It misses by a couple feet and smashes in the window well.

                “Y’fucking think y’can do whatever the _fuck_ y’want, don’t you Winchester?” Alastair shouts, coming forward again. Dean shoves him away, confused and pissed.

                “What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snaps, “Just get the fuck out of here, you crazy son of a bitch!”

                But Alastair doesn’t relent, spitting in Dean’s direction. “Y’fucking _ruined_ by life you whore!” Al screams, lunging at him again and swinging his drunken fists. He lands a couple more punches across Dean’s already-battered face before Dean can fight back. He raises his hands to block Al’s fists, and then throws a punch of his own, shoving the drunken psycho away from himself.

                If he ever needed any more confirmation that Alastair is truly and utterly insane, this is it. Right here, in this moment. He _never_ thought he’d see Alastair again. He simply assumed that Al would eventually get caught by the police and locked away for assaulting Castiel. But no. Here he is, on Dean’s front lawn in the middle of the night, screaming and drunk, blaming Dean for what he’s become.

                “Stop!” Dean shouts, shoving him away, “Leave, Alastair, I won’t say it again!”

                “You’re a fucking whore _coward_!” Alastair screams, “Asking for it like a fucking slut, ‘n then ruining everything for me!”

                Dean tries not to listen to his words, because if he does, he’ll want to puke. He _never_ asked for what Alastair did to him. He _didn’t_ ruin Alastair’s life, Alastair ruined his _own_ life.

                “Who the hell do you think you are?” Dean growls, actually dumbstruck that Alastair could possibly be _this_ twisted, to think that Dean is to blame for everything wrong in his life, after all that Alastair has done to ruin Dean’s, _and_ Castiel’s.

                But Alastair says nothing more, he just lunges forward again, and Dean finds himself on his back on the front lawn again with Alastair on top of him, punching and spitting at him, shouting incoherently.

                Dean just tries to defend himself. He knows he could probably beat Alastair if he tried hard enough, but Alastair is still _strong_ , even while drunk, and despite the fact that Dean has overpowered the crazy fuck before, he’s too shocked and reeling with the fact that Al is even here at all to really react more than he is.

                He doesn’t see John come outside, just flinches in surprise when a steel-toed boot comes out of nowhere and kicks Alastair off of Dean. Al falls to the side with a shout, and then Dean’s father is there, reaching down and picking Al up off the ground, only to throw him back down again, in the direction of his car.

                Dean sits up shakily, in a daze, his nose gushing blood, and watches in awe as John shouts at Alastair to get off his property. Dean’s confused when, distantly, he hears the sound of police sirens heading in this direction. He’s only been out here for a few minutes, who called the police? But his question is answered when he sees the squash lady’s curtains part next door, and she’s standing there with the phone to her ear and a stricken look on her face.

                Across the street, the neighbors are standing out on their porches watching the scene unfold, and Dean wipes the sleeve of his shirt under his nose, trying to clean the blood away before pushing himself shakily to his feet. Alastair is fighting with John now, trying to shove past him to get back to Dean. Dean is _all_ Alastair cares about, which makes Dean’s blood run cold. He’ll stop at _nothing_ , and Dean has no idea what he _did_ to deserve the fixation of such a lunatic. How is this even possible?

                Dean stumbles forward, grabbing his father’s arm as flashing red and blue lights appear at the end of the street, heading in the direction of their house. Alastair only backs off when he too spots the single police car heading in their direction. He stares at it for a moment, and then looks back at Dean next to his father, molten anger in his drunken eyes. God, in the darkness, he looks like a fucking demon, his eyes gleaming and full of rage, watery pupils reflecting the dim streetlight.

                “This isn’t over Winchester,” he snaps, backing away towards his car, stumbling over his feet, “Th’next time I see you, you’re fucking _dead!_ ”

                Dean just stands there in shock, heart pounding in his chest, still holding onto his father’s arm as Alastair stumbles away, falling back into the driver’s seat of his car and pealing away from the curb with a loud squeal of tires just as the cop car arrives.

                It only takes a matter of a few words for the police officer to understand that he needs to go after Alastair, and he takes off after Alastair’s little car as it swerves dangerously and takes a turn down the street too fast. Dean stands there dazed as the cop chases Alastair’s car around the corner, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

                Dean knows it won’t be long before more cops show up at his house with questions, but this is a small town, and for one cop to show up like that at first isn’t much of a surprise.

                It takes a couple minutes for Dean to pull himself together enough to move, and then he’s turning, striding back into his house. He realizes he’s shaking, and he can feel the blood running down his face from his nose, the throbbing of his jaw where Alastair punched him. For some reason, even though Alastair didn’t try anything with Dean tonight, didn’t try to kiss or touch him like that, Dean still feels like he needs a shower now. Just _seeing_ Alastair is enough to make Dean feel filthy and wrong and dirty. He rubs at his arms as he heads inside his house, phantom pains flaring up in his scars – not just the scars from The Accident, but from his cigarette burns as well.

                It’s been a couple weeks since he’s really, truly craved a cigarette, but now he wants one more than anything. Not just to smoke, but to burn himself again too, if only to stave off this cloying feeling of panic and sickness.

                He barely hears John enter the house after him again, calling his name angrily and slamming the front door with a loud bang.

                “Dean, when’re you gonna learn to keep your fucking hooligan friends the hell away from my house?” John snaps, slamming his fist against the wall as if for emphasis. Dean feels something snap in his chest, and he turns around, his hands balling into fists clumsily.

                “Did he _look_ like my fucking _friend_ to you?” he shouts, nearly backing down when he realizes how close John is standing to him. His father is only a few feet away, glaring daggers, not actually as drunk as Dean thought he was. The man is still drunk, yes, but he’s got a sort of clarity in his gaze that suggests he’s slept most of it off, and his shouting earlier had been incoherent from rage, not a lack of sobriety.

                John raises his eyebrows and his expression is all at once dangerous. “What did I tell you about raising your voice to me, Dean Winchester?” he growls angrily, and some of that initial instinctual fear and submissiveness floats to the surface of Dean’s mind, the same attitude he gets often when he’s faced with his father. Fear, respect, obedience.

                Only tonight, Dean is coiled like a spring, and his heart is racing, and his hands are shaking, and he’s _angry_. So _fucking_ angry about seeing Alastair again.

                So instead of apologizing to his father and hoping for an evening without another fight, Dean takes a swing. And he punches John right across his angry, drunken face. _Hard_. So hard, in fact, that John goes stumbling into the wall beside them, his expression shocked and pissed.

                The second Dean does it though, he freezes in place. He’s _never_ hit his father before. _Ever_. Not even when he’s been pissed in the past, not even when John has hit Dean a thousand times. Dean’s never hit back. That’s something he’s never allowed himself to do. He told himself it was wrong to hit his father, and even now, it feels wrong. But fuck, it also feels _good_.

                When John straightens up, recovering from the blow, Dean steps forward and jams an arm against John’s chest, shoving him back against the wall. “What kind of fucking father are you?” he snaps, before he can hold his tongue. John jerks against Dean’s arm, growling angrily, but Dean just shoves him back harder against the wall, getting within inches of his father’s face.

                “Do you even know who that guy was out there?” Dean asks, his eyes watering a little, fingertips buzzing with shock at the fact that not only did he have to deal with Alastair tonight, but he also just _hit_ his own father, for the first time in his life. He’s so fucking screwed.

                “Dean, get the hell off me,” John threatens, but Dean just shakes his head, a tear spilling down his cheek. He didn’t even realize he was crying, but his voice cracks when he speaks again.

                “Do you have any idea what that guy out there did to me?” he snaps, his voice a little hysterical, “Do you have any fucking idea what I’ve been though? What Sammy’s been through?”

                John’s jaw stiffens, and he stares at Dean, his anger not quite disappearing, but glazing over in a bit of confusion when he sees the tear running down Dean’s cheek in the dark. “What are you talking about?”

                Dean scoffs, shaking his head. “You really don’t know, do you?” he says, almost laughing, because how can his father be so blind? “What would mom say if she could see you now, huh? Do you think she’d be proud of the father you’ve been? Do you think she’d be happy to know about all the shit you’ve let happen to me and Sammy while you’ve been too busy sucking down every whiskey you can get your fucking hands on?”

                Anger flares again in John’s eyes, but Dean doesn’t even care to see it. He just shoves his father one more time, and then turns, heading back towards Sammy’s room.

                “Dean, wait-” John says from behind him, reaching out and grabbing onto his arm. But Dean reacts like he was burned, and he whirls around, swinging his fist, punching his father across the face again, even harder this time, sending John sprawling to the floor. Dean doesn’t even bother to watch him pull himself together, he just turns again and raps on Sam’s door, a secret knock that lets Sam know it’s Dean out here.

                When Sam opens the door, he looks scared and confused, and he pulls Dean inside, peeking out and seeing their father sitting up from where he fell on the floor with the hit. Sam’s eyes widen, and he quickly closes his bedroom door, locking it and turning to his brother.

                “Holy crap Dean, you punched dad!” he whispers in shock, his voice cracking. Dean groans as he sinks down on the edge of Sam’s bed, wiping at his wet eyes briefly so Sam doesn’t see that he was crying, even if he wasn’t crying that hard. He doesn’t even know _why_ he was crying. He’s turning into such a fucking girl lately, seriously.

                “Son of a bitch deserved it,” Dean mutters, sniffing as blood continues to run out of his nose.

                Sam stares at him for a second, and then walks over to his desk, grabbing some tissues and handing them to Dean. “What happened? Who was shouting? I heard sirens,” Sam asks as Dean holds the wad of tissues to his nose.

                Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t even have to think about it – he’s definitely not ready to talk about Alastair to his brother. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to talk about that with Sam. That’s a whole other bucket of shit that he wants to keep a lid on while Sam still has what remains of his innocence.

                “Just a douche from school,” he replies, by way of explanation. Sam doesn’t seem to want to accept that answer, but it’s the only one he’s going to get, and when Dean shoots him a look, Sam quiets and sits down on the bed next to him. Dean reaches up with his free hand and ruffles Sam’s hair a bit, just to make sure that Sam knows he’s not mad at him or anything.

                Outside the bedroom door, they hear John shove himself to his feet. Dean half expects their father to starts pounding on the other side of the door, but instead, John’s heavy footsteps shuffle past, the floorboards creaking as he heads down the hall. They hear his bedroom door close, and lock as well, and Dean and Sam exchange a weird glance before Sam crawls under the covers again.

                Dean tucks the blankets around him before standing and pulling the tissues away from his nose to see if it has stopped bleeding yet. It hasn’t of course. In the distance, he hears more police sirens, and he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. So much for the good night he was having.

                With a brief glance at Sam, he heads over and opens the bedroom door, stepping out into the hall and walking over towards the front door. He peeks out the front living room window, looking for flashing lights in the distance, but sees none yet, just hears the sirens as the police head in their direction.

                Dean leans back against the wall near the front door, sliding down until he lands on his ass on the floor. And he sits there, waiting for the police to arrive with their millions of questions that they’ll have and that Dean won’t really have answers for. He holds the tissues to his bleeding nose, closes his eyes, and tries desperately to stop his hands from shaking, his heart from pounding, and his mind from spiraling out of his careful control.


	40. To Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting down to the wire here guys :) Only a couple chapters left!

                It takes Dean three entire days to stop being afraid to fall asleep in his own house again. It takes three entire days, of not hearing anything from the police or anything from Alastair, for Dean to stop shaking. Even when he’s sitting in class for those three days, he finds himself jittering his legs, or finds that he can’t take notes, because he’s shaking too much, constantly looking up at the windows and the door, expecting Alastair to just _be_ there.

                But it’s only three days before he snaps out of it, and honestly? He’s kind of proud that it _only_ takes three days this time. The last time Alastair fucked with his life, it took Dean _weeks_ to feel normal again, took him weeks to stop feeling like he needed to scrub his skin clean every second of every day.

                When Dean tells Castiel that Alastair showed up again, drunk and insane in the middle of the night, Castiel is understandably furious. Not only is he mad at Alastair, but he’s mad at the police too, for taking so damn long to find the guy. And they didn’t even technically _find_ him – Alastair found _Dean_ , and the squash lady was quick enough on her feet to call the police before things went too far south.

                Dean is frustrated that the police won’t tell him anything. And he gets it – it’s not exactly their job to keep him informed about an ongoing investigation. But still…just a little peace of mind would be a massive relief when he’s been so on edge the past few days.

                And on top of all the crap with Alastair, Dean is worried about his dad. Which he shouldn’t be, because fuck John Winchester and his complete lack of self control. But ever since Dean punched the man for the first time in his life the other night, John hasn’t emerged from his bedroom. Occasionally Dean stands outside the man’s room, listening for any signs of life, halfway convinced his father has drunk himself to death in there and is just rotting on his bed. But then he’ll hear a shift, or a grunt, and he’ll know his father is alive, and that Dean must have really pushed him over that edge this time.

                Dean dreads the moment that John finally does emerge from his bedroom, whenever that will be. He dreads what sort of monster will come walking out of that room. Dreads how _angry_ his father will be when he finally decides to get mad about the fact that his own son punched him _twice_ in the face.

                But for now, in this period of time _in-between_ , things are quiet. Since Alastair showed up at Dean’s house a few nights ago, things have been quiet. Dean finally realizes one afternoon, walking home from school, that he should probably go over and thank the squash lady for calling the police so quickly when Alastair showed up. He’s not sure what would have happened had the cops not shown up when they did. He wonders if maybe John would have beaten Alastair to death. Certainly if John hadn’t, Dean would have. And going to prison for the rest of his life over a scumbag like Alastair just isn’t Dean’s idea of revenge.

                So three days after she called the police that night, Dean finds himself standing on the squash lady’s front stoop, next to her garden of newly planted gourds and fairy statues, her little dogs going crazy on the other side of the door because they can sense Dean standing here. Dean shifts his backpack on his shoulders a bit, glancing behind himself at the empty street, and then sighs, reaching out and ringing the squash lady’s doorbell.

                Instead of the usual cliché doorbell sound, her doorbell is the beginning of _Für Elise_ by Beethoven, and Dean quirks a smile as he listens to the calming piano music until it cuts out. It takes the squash lady a while to actually answer the door, but Dean can hear her inside talking to all her dogs, and he chuckles a little. When she finally does open the door a minute or two later, it’s like opening a floodgate, and all the little toaster-sized dogs come running out of the house, swarming around Dean’s work boots and nipping at his shoelaces and the ratty ends of his jeans.

                He looks down at all of them, uttering a small “Whoa,” and nearly off-balancing in his attempts to not step on any of the little dogs. In front of him, the squash lady laughs her musical laughter, and Dean looks up to find her smiling widely at him, her makeup perfectly done, adorned by all her storybook wrinkles. She looks like a goddess, and Dean is just as taken with her as he was the first time he spoke to her at Hautley’s Bend.

                “Hello,” she greets, “What a surprise!”

                Dean gives her a half smile, glancing down at the dogs again and carefully extracting one foot from the masses, standing on one leg and holding onto the doorframe for support so he doesn’t fall over. “Hey,” he greets, “Um…I just came by to thank you.”

                She smiles again, softer this time, and whistles once, beckoning to the little dogs. They all perk up at the sound of her whistle and then go tumbling back into the house, freeing Dean’s legs, to his relief. “Come in dear,” she says, stepping back, and he hesitates for a moment before stepping inside.

                He starts to remove his boots as she closes the door, but she shakes her head and tsks at him. “No need,” she says, patting his arm as she passes, “Turnip is on cleaning duty today. You don’t have to worry about making a mess.”

                Dean is confused for a split moment, and then bites his lip to keep from laughing, setting his backpack down near the front door. He almost forgot how crazy this woman really is, thinking her dogs do all her house work. But he plays along and follows her back into the small living room near the back corner of the house. When Dean glances out the window, there’s a direct view of his usual spot where he sits on his roof near his chimney, and he realizes this is where he always sees the squash lady standing when he used to sit up on his roof and cry, or smoke, or burn himself…or all of the above.

                He realizes suddenly that he hasn’t done that in a very long time. He can’t even remember the last time he climbed up onto his spot on the roof. And maybe that’s a good thing, as much as that spot was his favorite place for a long time. Maybe it’s good that he doesn’t go up there anymore.

                The squash lady waves her hand in the direction of her couch, and Dean takes a seat on the soft blue velvet, fumbling awkwardly as a few of the little dogs sniff at his feet. He actually chuckles a bit when the little brown and black pug (Feldspar, if he remembers the name right) jumps up on the couch and immediately climbs into Dean’s lap to get comfortable, just like he did at Hautley’s Bend the first time. Dean strokes the little wrinkly head, and Feldspar wriggles around happily before settling, his little tongue poking out of his mouth as he snorts.

                The squash lady laughs again. “He really likes you,” she says, and Dean glances up at her, smiling a little.

                “Lucky me,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. She hums a little, and then pulls her white, knit shawl that looks like it was homemade tighter around her shoulders.

                “Would you like some tea?” she asks, “Juliette made a pot a half an hour ago. I’m sure it’s still warm.”

                The corner of Dean’s mouth lifts a little, and he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. I just wanted to drop by really quick before I head over to Cas’s.”

                She cocks her head to the side, sinking down in the chair opposite the couch wrapped in the same gentle blue velvet. Dean has no idea how the squash lady manages to keep the couches looking so clean and shiny with all the dogs she has. “Who is Cas?” she asks, and Dean flushes red a little. _Right_ , he’s only ever had one conversation with this woman. It’s strange, but he feels like she knows everything about him, when that’s not exactly true.

                “Oh, he’s uh…my boyfriend. I’m sure you’ve seen him,” he replies, clearing his throat, “Big blue eyes, dark hair, kind of a dork?”

                Her eyes light up in understanding, and she smiles. “Oh yes, I remember him,” she nods, “Beautiful boy. He was just at your house a few days ago, yes?”

                Dean’s eyebrows press together for a moment before he realizes that she’s talking about when Cas burst in a few days ago and broke up the fight between Dean and John. He flushes red again, and _god_ he wishes he could stop blushing so damn much. Swallowing, he nods a bit. “Yeah that was him,” he says, huffing a little breath.

                The squash lady studies Dean for a moment with an amused look on her face. One of her little dogs, the Dachshund that Dean remembers is named Oskar, sniffs around her sandal-clad feet for a moment before hopping up onto her lap. Without looking away from Dean, she removes her shawl and wraps it around the little dog, like she already knows that’s what the dog wanted.

                “So what would you like to thank me for?” she asks curiously, tucking a lock of her silver hair behind her ear. Dean just studies her for a moment in awe. This woman barely leaves her house, and yet she’s dressed to the nines. There are light blue crystal earrings handing from her ears, and perfect red lipstick on her lips, and she’s clad in silken looking clothing that's suitable for a fancy restaurant, like she’s waiting for a long lost lover or something. Dean wonders idly if she _is_.

                He chews his lip for a moment, looking down at his hands in his lap. “I just wanna thank you for calling the police the other night,” he says finally, his cheeks heating, “I…I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t called them when you did.”

                She smiles softly at him for a moment. “You’re welcome,” she replies simply, and then pauses before a troubled expression crosses her face, “Who was that boy? The one with the rocks? He made Potsdorf very upset.”

                Dean glances at one of her little dogs she gestures towards, lounging in a patch of sun on the carpet near the window. He swallows. “Sorry about that,” he says, and she shakes her head.

                “It’s not your fault,” she replies, “It looked like that boy made you a bit upset as well dear.”

                Dean feels a little pang of nausea in his gut, and he swallows thickly, trying not to let his hands start shaking again. This morning was the first morning he woke up without feeling like he was going to come apart at the seams with the need to scrub himself clean of all things Alastair. He really doesn’t want that feeling to come back again after one little conversation about him with the squash lady.

                Gulping, he lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. “He's just…not a good guy,” he says, by way of explanation, “He…caused a lot of trouble and won’t stop coming around. I’m just glad the cops showed up when they did.”

                The squash lady hums a little, and when Dean looks back up at her, she’s studying him carefully. She reminds Dean so much of Missouri in that, every time she looks at him, Dean feels like she’s looking right _through_ him, seeing the truth in his eyes even if he doesn’t say it out loud. And, as much as that makes Dean feel uncomfortable, it also makes him feels sort of safe. Because…telling someone the truth, having to _say_ it out loud, is a whole lot worse than someone just _knowing_ it already. And even though Dean knows there’s no way the squash lady could possibly know everything that Alastair has done to Dean and Cas, talking to her still makes him feel better.

                She cocks her head a little as she looks at him. “And what about that angry father of yours?” she asks suddenly, and Dean perks up a little.

                “What about him?” he asks, wanting desperately to be embarrassed about the fact that she knows what a scumbag John is, but not really feeling that embarrassed at all.  

                “I haven’t seen him in a few days,” she points out, “Has he finally quieted down after all these years?”

                Dean actually huffs a little laugh. No doubt John Winchester’s antics are something of a legend around this neighborhood. No doubt Dean’s father is a topic of conversation in all these little houses.

                “I uh…I hit him,” Dean admits sheepishly, and is surprised by the amused look on the squash lady’s face, “He hasn’t come out of his room since I did it. But I hit him.”

                She quirks an eyebrow at him and strokes her hand over Oskar’s head in her lap as the dog wriggles around under her shawl. “Are you ready for me to call the police on him too?” she asks, and Dean’s eyes widen a little at her. He’s surprised she hasn’t yet, but then, maybe she somehow knew Dean wouldn’t want that.

                He shakes his head a little. “No…I don’t think that’s a solution,” he replies, and she eyes him for a moment.

                “Why not?”

                He looks up at her, chewing his lip, and then shrugs a little. “Because you never give up on family,” he replies, shaking his head, “He’s an asshole, but he’s my family.”

                She hums a little again, and her eyes warm a bit as she looks at him. And the way she’s looking at him now actually _does_ make him feel a little uncomfortable, because she’s looking at him like he’s something _special_ , and he’s worthy of adoration or something. She’s looking at him like she _admires_ him, and it makes Dean’s skin crawl, because Dean Winchester may be a lot of things, but he’s certainly _not_ admirable.

                He shifts uncomfortably on the velvet couch for a moment, and then clears his throat. “So uh…anyway. Yeah. Thanks again for calling the cops,” he says again, and she smiles like she’s amused with him or something, “I should probably go. Cas is waiting for me.”

                She nods a little. “Of course,” she says, nudging Oskar off her lap and pushing herself to her feet slowly, “It’s best not to keep the one you love waiting.”

                Dean jumps up from his spot on the couch, stepping over to take her arm gently and help her to her feet. She smiles at him in thanks, and Dean wonders again just how old this woman is. Her arm feels frail in his large hands, and she looks like she’s seen a thousand years’ worth of stories that have etched themselves into her eyes and skin.

                Wait…did she just say _love_?

                Dean quirks an eyebrow at her, and studies her face for a moment, practically towering over her when he’s standing right next to her. She’s _tiny_.

                “Can I ask you something?” he asks, and she nods once, as a signal for him to continue while they make their way towards the front door again with an ocean of dogs at their feet. “Have you ever been in love?”

                She laughs again, sounding like an orchestra of wind chimes, as they reach the front door and she opens it for Dean. “Why do you ask dear?”

                Dean snorts as he picks up his backpack and slings it over one shoulder, holding onto the door and looking down at her. “I don’t know…” he admits, and then chews his lip for a moment before adding, “I guess I just wanna know what it feels like. You know, just in case.”

                She studies him for a moment, and then chuckles a little, reaching up and patting Dean’s cheek like she’s his own grandmother or something. “Dean, you want to know what love feels like?” she asks, sighing and dropping her hand from his face to his wrist, “It feels like a constant question in the back of your mind that you never have the answer for, and one that you eventually have to stop wondering about at all.”

                Dean’s eyebrows press together in confusion. “What do you mean?” he asks, and she laughs again, pulling him out onto the front porch and down the steps to her little freshly-turned garden with the fairies all around it.

                She gestures at the fairies with one wrinkled hand, “Remember, they’re very good listeners,” she says, “Sometimes, if I have questions that have impossible answers, the fairies keep my secrets for me.”

                Dean cocks his head to the side. He really has no idea what she’s talking about, but he has to keep in mind that this woman is off her rocker, even if she seems strangely intuitive. Despite his confusion, Dean feels a flare of amusement bloom in his chest, and he cocks a brow at her.

                She glances at him and smiles at his amused expression. “Take one home, Dean,” she says, nodding towards the fairies, “Let her guide you.”

                Dean snorts, hesitating before glancing down at the little statues. He has no idea which one to choose, until he sees a little naked lady hanging out at the back of the garden. Pursing his lips, he shrugs and carefully steps around the garden, trying not to ruin the perfectly planted plot, and picks up the little naked fairy, eyeing it in his hand for a moment before looking up at the squash lady. She’s smiling at him with raised eyebrows and he rolls his eyes, climbing back out of the garden and cradling the little metal fairy gently in his hand.

                He pauses for a moment and then pulls in a breath. “Hey, do you wanna come to my graduation?” he asks, and then instantly flushes red in embarrassment. _What is he doing_? He barely knows this lady.

                But before he has a moment to be more than a little embarrassed, the squash lady lets out a little laugh, and then nods. “I’d love to,” she replies, gesturing to the fairy in Dean’s hands, “Consider this a graduation gift.”

                Dean smiles a little, nodding and looking down at the statue again. “It’s on May first,” he says, “I’ll drop an invite in your mailbox.”

                “Thank you,” she says, and then pauses before reaching out and giving Dean an unexpected hug. Dean stiffens for a moment, and then loosens up again, hesitantly wrapping his arms around her small frame in return. The hug doesn’t last for very long, but Dean happens to glance up in the middle of it and spots John fucking Winchester standing at his bedroom window across the yard, watching Dean and the squash lady. Dean doesn’t really understand the strange, blank expression on his father’s face, even if it’s a little murky through the window, but he feels a bit embarrassed before he pulls away.

                The squash lady smiles up at him, pats his arm a couple times right over where his cigarette burns are, and says, “Now go see that beautiful boy of yours.”

                Giving her a sheepish smile, he shifts his backpack onto his shoulders more, and farewells her before walking away across their freshly-sprouting lawns towards his front door. He takes one last glance at John’s bedroom window as he rounds the front of his house, but when he looks again, his father is gone.

 

*       *       *

 

                The next morning, Dean is sitting outside the high school, back to the bricks of the building, picking at his fingernails while he waits for the five minute warning bell to ring. Cas wasn’t with him for the walk to school this morning – he came in early to have a brief chat with Cara before classes begin, so Dean is just out enjoying the warm weather for a little while instead of cooping himself up in the school when he doesn’t have to. God he’s so ready to graduate from this place, even if he doesn’t have any plans for his future beyond high school. He doesn’t even know if his grades are good enough to get him into any college worth a dime, but at least he’s graduating.

                He doesn’t see Crowley heading in his direction until the Brit is standing right next to him, leaning up against the wall beside Dean. Dean jumps a little in surprise, and then glances up at his friend. “Hey man, haven’t seen you in a while,” he greets, and then his brow immediately furrows at the uncharacteristically weary look on Crowley’s face. “You okay?” he asks.

                Crowley glances down at him as he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and tucks it between his lips, lighting it up expertly before offering one to Dean with a raised eyebrow. Dean looks at the cigarettes for a moment before swallowing and waving his hand a little.

                “Nah, I’m good,” he replies, “I quit.”

                “Did you really?” Crowley asks, actually sounding amused, “My, my, that little lovebird of yours has really transformed you into your own butterfly, hasn’t he?”

                Dean rolls his eyes. “Aw c’mon, we’re not gonna start this up again, are we?” he snorts, and Crowley chuckles beside him.

                “No, I suppose you’re right,” he says, sucking on his cigarette and blowing the smoke in Dean’s direction, “Good for you though.”

                Dean glares up at him, shaking his head and settling back into the brick wall again. Crowley is quiet for a moment, his leg fidgeting, and it’s the first time Dean notices he’s clutching a newspaper in his opposite hand, the stack rolled up in his fist.

                “I take it you haven’t heard then,” Crowley says, after a couple minutes, and Dean glances up at him briefly before looking back out towards The Docks where Gordon and Zach are sitting, kicking pebbles on the asphalt and smoking their own cigarettes, passing a flask back and forth between the two of them, not even paying any attention to Dean and Crowley anymore. It’s like Dean is invisible to them now that he’s finally stopped hanging out with them for good. And Dean supposes that’s alright. He never did like those two very much.

                “Haven’t heard what?” Dean asks, running a hand through his hair and waving to Victor as the man passes by on his morning security rounds. Victor nods back, always the serious one.

                Crowley is quiet again for a moment, long enough that Dean glances up at him curiously, only to find that the Brit is studying his face carefully, like he’s trying to decide whether or not to tell him something.

                “Dude, what?” Dean presses, a little uncomfortable with the way Crowley is acting. If Crowley is anything, he’s always sure of what he’s going to say or do, no matter how pissed or uneasy it makes the people around him. So for Crowley to be standing here second-guessing himself like this makes a little knot form in Dean’s stomach.

                The Brit shifts where he stands for a moment, and then places his cigarette back between his lips, holding it there as he unrolls the newspaper clutched in his hand. He looks at the paper for a few seconds, and then hands it down to Dean where he’s still sitting against the side of the building.

                Dean takes the newspaper and snaps it out so it lays straight, scouring his eyes along the headlines.

                “What am I supposed to-” he begins, and then his words cut off with a little choke. Crowley shifts uncomfortably beside him, but Dean isn’t paying attention to his friend anymore as his eyes catch upon a headline off to the side of the local front page.

                In bold black writing, one of the columns on the edge of the front page is titled **_Interstate 89: man dies in high speed collision, police involved_**.

                It’s the sort of headline that Dean sees every day in the newspaper, but for some reason, the way Crowley is acting combined with the article standing out like a sore thumb in the paper, makes Dean’s stomach knot up with chills and nausea, and forces his eyes to keep reading.

                The more he reads though, the more his stomach knots up, until his muscles are so tight he can feel himself cramping, his lungs burning with the need to breathe when he didn’t even realize he was holding his breath in the first place. Bile rises in the back of his throat, and _god damn it_ , his hands are shaking again.

                “Is…” he begins, and then has to swallow a few times to keep from hurling, “Is this real?”

                Crowley scuffs his foot against the cement beside him before speaking. “They’re saying he was drunk. Like _really_ drunk, blood alcohol through the roof,” Crowley says, his voice tight, “He died on impact. Flipped his car over the guardrail on I-89 just outside of town. Some cop was chasing him, but he was already dead by the time they caught up.”

                Dean’s hands tighten around the edges of the newspaper as his heart slams in his chest. God, if he doesn’t chill the fuck out soon, he’s going to have a frigging heart attack before he even turns twenty.

                _Oh my god_. He’s actually dead. Alastair is _dead_.

                Dean hunches over a little, suddenly feeling light-headed. Crowley reaches down and plucks the newspaper out of his hands again. “Hey,” he says, reaching down and grasping Dean’s shoulder to keep him from falling over, “Dean, are you alright?”

                Dean gasps for a moment, and it takes him a second to realize that he’s on the verge of having a panic attack, and he really doesn’t know _why_. Why is he upset right now? Or is he even upset at all?  He doesn’t really know _what_ he’s feeling, but it doesn’t feel good. He swallows hard, gulping convulsively, and after a minute or two, spots are starting to dance in his vision.

                He reaches up towards Crowley, waving his hand, and for some reason Crowley just knows what he’s asking for, and he plucks his cigarette out of his mouth, placing it in Dean’s shaking hand. Without hesitation, Dean brings the cigarette to his mouth and inhales hard, sucking in a huge drag. It burns the walls of his throat viciously, and tears spring up in his eyes from the dry pull of it inside his healing body. But the second the wave of nicotine hits his system, he sees those spots fade from the edges of his vision, and when he exhales, he coughs, nearly hacking up a lung, squeezing his eyes shut.

                Crowley plucks the cigarette out of his hand before he drops it, and pats Dean on the back like he’s burping a baby. Dean smacks his hand away, and coughs a few more times before groaning and licking his lips, pinching the bridge of his nose hard and squeezing his eyes shut.

                Crowley gives him a couple minutes to pull himself together, and Dean feels the last urges to panic slowly melt out of his body, his heart rate slowing slightly as his muscles relax once again. His stomach is still cramping like he needs to puke, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin anymore. When Dean opens his eyes, he glances at the newspaper laying on the ground in a little puddle from the recent rain, the edges of it fluttering a little in the light breeze rolling through the woods ahead.

                **_Interstate 89: man dies in high speed collision, police involved._**

And just like that…it’s over.

                Jesus, one little headline to sum up an entire nightmare? That’s it? That’s all?

                Crowley shifts beside Dean. “Are you alright?” he asks, and Dean lifts his head finally, not quite looking up at Crowley, but tilting his face in his direction, staring off blankly at the trees.

                He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. And for some reason, Crowley seems to just _get_ that. He seems to just _understand_. Which is weird because, Crowley is a lot of things, but he isn’t a particularly _understanding_ person. He’s accepting, but not understanding.

                They sit there quietly for a long time, long enough for the five minute warning bell to ring. Dean watches Zach and Gordon stand up from the cement slabs at The Docks and head towards the school. He wonders if they know about Alastair, if they know that Al is dead. He wonders if they’ve heard. They don’t look particularly broken up about it if they know already, but then, who in this town _would_ be particularly broken up about someone like Alastair getting killed in a car accident? Especially since the accident was clearly his fault?

                “Dean?” Crowley asks, after a while of silence, both of them completely ignoring the fact that the five minute bell rang and they’re supposed to be heading into the school right now.

                “What?” Dean asks, his voice flat, throat scratchy from taking a drag on a cigarette for the first time in weeks.

                Crowley hesitates again, for a long few moments, and Dean is getting a little itchy under his skin with discomfort at the way Crowley is acting this morning. It’s so out of character for Crowley to be hesitant or cautious.

                “Is it true?” the Brit asks, and Dean glances in his direction, again not quite looking at his face, but instead gazing off across the parking lot, feeling weak and exhausted suddenly.

                “Is what true?” he asks, too drained to feel annoyed that Crowley is being so redundant right now.

                Crowley pauses, and takes another drag on his cigarette before exhaling and dropping the butt on the ground, scuffing it out with his shoe. Dean stares at the crushed filter blindly.

                “Did Alastair really…” Crowley begins, and then trails off and hesitates again before starting over, “I mean…I heard some things…about you, and Alastair. I heard that he…did some things. Is it…is it true?”

                If Dean weren’t so drained at the moment, he would have laughed at Crowley stuttering over his words so much. But instead, he feels a cold chill sink into his bones and pass through his body like poison. He clenches and relaxes his fists, pulling his knees up and resting his forearms on them, gritting his teeth and glaring off into the trees.

                It takes him a long time to answer, but when he finally does, all he says is, “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He pauses and then adds, “He’s dead. It’s over.”

                Crowley is quiet for so long that if Dean were to close his eyes, he would have thought the Brit had walked off. The bell signaling the start of classes rings, but neither of them move.

                A couple minutes later, Crowley shifts a little and reaches into the inside pocket of his pea coat. He pulls out his flask, twisting the cap off and taking a swig before offering the drink down to Dean. Dean glances at it, and then huffs a little breath, reaching up and accepting it and taking his own long swallow. The smooth whiskey soothes his dry, burned throat from the cigarette, and he grits his teeth as the bitterness of Glencraig washes through his taste buds.

                Grimacing at the taste, he hands it back up to Crowley with a nod, and Crowley takes another little sip before stuffing it back inside his pea coat. Then, without another word, Crowley pats Dean’s shoulder, almost like he’s trying to reassure him, and Dean feels a little knot form in the back of his throat that he has a hard time swallowing past. Even though he hasn’t said anything outright, somehow he can just tell that Crowley knows. Crowley knows what Alastair did. Dean has no idea how the Brit found out, but it really doesn’t matter anymore. None of it matters anymore.

                It’s right then that Dean understands what he’s feeling deep down in his very core, beneath all the sick and the remaining tendrils of panic.

                He feels relief. Sweet, perfect, calming relief.

                Maybe it’s the whiskey.

                Neither of them says anything more, just remain there staring off into the trees for a little while longer before Victor comes walking by again on his rounds and gives them a stern look as if to say _get to class before I smack you one_.

                Dean pushes himself to his feet shakily, brushing off the back of his pants, and he and Crowley exchange a brief glance. Crowley gives him a nod, and Dean returns it without a word. When the Brit disappears into the school building, Dean stares at the glass door as it sinks closed, thinking about the long day of classes ahead.

                And before he knows what he’s doing, he’s turned on a heel, and is heading towards the forest, hands tucked tightly in his pockets. No matter what he’s feeling in this moment, he just knows that he can’t be here right now. He needs the woods. He needs the fresh air. He just needs to think.

 

*      *      *

 

                By the time the sun goes down that night, Castiel is practically beside himself with worry. He’s been trying to reach Dean all day, but Dean isn’t answering his phone, and Cas didn’t see him at school at all. He’s been sick with relief and concern all day, and he’s not exactly sure how to interpret both those emotions put together.

                The news has been traveling like wildfire all over the high school since the article was printed in the local newspaper this morning. **_Man dies in high speed collision_. **

The words have been playing over and over again in Castiel head, but somehow he’s still trying to decide whether he believes them or not. It all just seems too unreal. He feels sick to the stomach thinking about the fact that he wished Alastair dead over and over again for the past however many months, and now, the scumbag really _is_ dead. It’s actually _over_. This whole mess of a situation is _over_.

                The moment Cas got home from school today, he sent Anna to go to stay at Missouri’s for the night. Anna was perfectly okay with it, especially after taking one look at Castiel’s face and seeing the strange mix of emotions there. Now it’s been a few hours, and Castiel has yet to hear anything from Dean. He’s pacing in his living room, and keeps glancing at his phone as if it will suddenly light up with a text or call from Dean, _anything_ to indicate that Dean is alright. The only explanation Cas can think of for why Dean has been missing all day is that he too heard about Alastair’s accident, and is taking it badly.

                And Cas understands. As much of a psychotic nightmare as Alastair was, people still handle death in very strange, unexpected ways. Shock, relief maybe? That’s what Castiel is feeling anyway. He’s not sure how Dean is taking it.

                He doesn’t have to wait very long to find out though.

                Not ten minutes after the sun dips below the horizon, there’s a knock on his front door, and Cas rushes from where he’s pacing in the living room to the door, throwing it open to find Dean standing there hunched in on himself on the front porch.

                They stare at each other for a second, and just by the look on Dean’s face, Castiel knows that Dean heard about Alastair’s death. And without a word, Cas steps forward and wraps his arms tightly around his boyfriend. Dean stands there stiffly for a few seconds, and then returns the hug hesitantly, winding his arms around Cas’s back and eventually tightening them, gripping handfuls of Cas’s shirt in each fist.

                They stand there like that for several minutes, the quiet of the night all around them, warm spring breeze wrapping them like the arms of nature herself. Somewhere in the distance, a dog is barking.

                When Dean finally speaks, his voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been running all day.

                “I…I don’t know what kind of person feels _happy_ when someone dies,” he croaks, a little shiver rolling across his broad shoulders. Cas shushes him and shakes his head, squeezing Dean tighter.

                But Dean doesn’t quiet, he just buries his face in Cas’s shoulder and huffs a little breath. “I mean, isn’t that kind of fucked up?” he says, voice muffled in the shoulder of Cas’s t-shirt, “Isn’t it fucked up that I spent the whole day today trying to feel _bad_ , and I couldn’t?”

                Cas swallows hard and pulls away a bit, just enough so that he can see Dean’s face. Dean’s head is hanging, almost like he’s exhausted, and Castiel reaches up, tucking a knuckle under his chin and lifting his head so his eyes are locked with Dean’s.

                “It’s not fucked up Dean,” he says, shaking his head, “The fact that you’re relieved…that makes you _human_.”

                Dean stares at him for a second, and even if his eyes are a little watery, his lips still twitch a little, and then he laughs. It’s a short, painful sounding laugh, and then he chokes and laughs again, once, harshly.

                “God, I’m so fucking glad he’s gone Cas,” Dean says, reaching up and pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut, “It’s like…it’s like all these little voices in my head have finally shut the fuck up. I can _breathe_.”

                Cas smiles a little, even as he feels a little wave of nausea deep in his gut. He reaches up and takes Dean’s hand, pulling it away from his face and twining their fingers together.

                “Come on,” he says, “Let’s just go inside. We don’t have to talk about this.”

                Dean opens his eyes and exhales shakily, gulping so loud that Castiel can hear the click. He pulls Dean into the warmth of his house, closing and locking the front door out of instinct, and they head back to the kitchen together.

                Even though neither of them feels like eating, they still force themselves to cook something up and have some dinner. It takes a while, but eventually they feel the tension bleeding out of their muscles, and at one point, Dean looks up at Cas and his eyes soften, a small smile curving his full lips.             

                They stare at each other for a second, and then Dean asks, in a quiet voice, “Will you fuck me?”

                Cas huffs a little laugh, looking at Dean for a long moment and then leaning over the table, slipping his hand around the back of Dean’s head and pulling him in for a long, drawn out kiss, sliding his tongue inside Dean’s mouth and earning himself a low groan.

                When he pulls away after a minute or two, Dean’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide. “Of course Dean,” is all Castiel says, and Dean smiles, swallowing hard.

                They leave their dishes scattered across the kitchen table, and Dean slips into the living room while Cas makes a quick trip up to his bedroom to grab a bottle of lube and a condom. When he gets back downstairs to the living room, Dean has turned the TV on to some sort of old black and white movie with grainy faces and piano music. He’s closing the curtains over the front living room window as Cas walks in, and Dean’s shirt is already off, tossed carelessly on the floor.

                Cas pauses for a moment when he first walks in, eyeing the trim lines of Dean’s bare back, the smattering of freckles, and the natural stretch of his scars. Despite _everything_ that’s happened today, and everything that’s happened all along, Castiel feels warmth pool in his chest and in his stomach, and when Dean turns around, Castiel smiles at him and takes a seat on the couch, cocking his head.

                “Come here,” he says, his voice low, the sound of the black and white movie crackling in the background.

                Dean licks his lips, and then flushes, glancing down sheepishly and making his way over to the couch. Before he makes a move to sit down, Cas reaches up and starts unbuckling Dean’s belt, yanking it out of the loops, and Dean huffs a little breath, his cock visibly swelling, pressing a bulge through his loose jeans. Cas tosses the belt aside as Dean fumbles with his own button and zipper, shoving both his jeans and his boxers down in one go, his half-hard cock springing free.

                Once Dean is naked, he shifts forward, straddling Castiel’s lap and sliding into place so his cock is pressed up against Cas’s belly. Castiel realizes belatedly that he’s still fully clothed while Dean is completely nude, but for some reason that only serves to turn Castiel on more, and he feels his cock twitch and begin to harden in his pants.

                He arches his neck up and captures Dean’s lips in another kiss, leaning back against the cushions of the couch and somehow dragging Dean with him where their mouths are connected. Dean goes willingly, settling further into Cas’s lap, not seeming to mind the rough pull of denim against the sensitive skin of his bare thighs. Cas settles his hands on Dean’s hips for a moment, and then slides one hand up the shallow canyon of Dean’s spine, all the way to the back of his head, threading his fingers through Dean’s soft hair there to keep their mouth pressed tightly together.

                Then, without warning, he moves his free hand and wraps it around Dean’s shaft. Dean jerks and groans, the noise swallowed up by Cas’s mouth as Castiel begins to stroke him lightly, teasingly, just enough to where Dean’s half-hard cock swells even more, stiffening until it’s fully hard and beading with precome at the tip.

                Cas focuses on the sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath the head of Dean’s cock, gathering precome with a sweep of his thumb over the slit and rubbing his moistened finger in little teasing circular motions right over the very part of Dean’s cock that has him squirming the most.

                Dean’s hips jerk forward into the movement, and Castiel’s hand tightens in his hair slightly, a warning to take it slow. Dean stills obediently, groaning low and long into Castiel’s mouth, huffing little shaking breaths as Cas continues to tease him, gathering more precome and striping it up and down Dean’s shaft slowly until Dean is practically shaking with need on top of him, grinding his ass down rhythmically against Cas’s thighs.

                It’s only when Castiel feels Dean’s balls start to tighten up that he finally relents and lets go, forcing a strangled gasp out of Dean as his impending orgasm withers slightly. Cas chuckles and pulls away from the kiss long enough to grab his shirt by the end and pull it off with Dean’s help. Dean balls it up and tosses it over the back of the couch where it must land on the floor somewhere in the front hallway, and then Dean is leaning down and capturing Castiel’s lips again in a kiss that’s much more urgent than before.

                Castiel shivers when he feels the way Dean is slowly grinding against him, like he’s can’t even help it, like he’s desperate for it. Dean’s hands slide down the flat of Castiel’s stomach and start working at the button of his jeans, and it’s only when Dean’s knuckles brush up against the bulge at the front of Castiel’s boxers that Cas realizes just how hard he is already. He got so lost in teasing Dean, he didn’t even realize the effect it was having on himself.

                Dean manages to open up the fly of Cas’s jeans, and starts to tug them down slightly, but somewhere in between, they get lost in kissing again, and Cas is left with his jeans just hanging open, the bulge of his straining dick pressing up through the thin, white material of his underwear. Neither of them seem to care, and without Dean having to ask, Castiel fumbles blindly for the lube on the end table, knocking it over before he closes his hand around it and flicks it open.

                Behind Dean, the black and white film fades from dialogue to some musical number, and gentle music fills the room, some cheesy-sounding man singing a love ballad to a woman on screen. Cas barely hears it over the delicious sounds of their lips moving together as he squeezes a generous dollop of lube out onto two of his fingers behind Dean’s back, tossing the bottle aside and coating his fingers thickly before placing a steadying hand on Dean’s hip.

                Dean doesn’t stop kissing Castiel, just lifts himself up slightly, giving Cas permission and room to reach his hand between Dean’s legs, brushing his lubed fingers over Dean’s entrance.  Dean stiffens and groans, shifting and spreading his thighs further, his hand gripping Cas’s shoulder in a silent urge to keep going.

                Cas slides his free hand back, gripping Dean’s ass to spread him wide, and then he presses two fingers inside Dean all at once, not even warning him before plunging both digits to the hilt. Dean finally breaks away from the kiss, crying out in pleasure/pain, his body curling in on itself as his forehead drops to Castiel’s shoulder heavily. Cas shushes him and nips lightly at the side of his neck, trailing kisses up to the notch of his jaw. Dean gasps hoarsely, perfectly still for a few moments as he adjusts.

                When he arches his back slightly, invitingly, Castiel takes that as an urge to continue, and he slowly pulls his fingers back out before sliding them back in, fucking his hand up into Dean the way he wants his cock to be buried inside this boy right now. Dean groans, tucking his face into the side of Cas’s neck instead of his shoulder, hot breath washing over the bare skin of Cas’s clavicle. Cas tries to ignore the throb of his own erection, the near-painful need, and scissors Dean open slowly, eventually adding a third finger, and then a fourth.

                At one point, he realizes that Dean is rolling his hips ever so slightly, fucking himself down onto Castiel’s hand, his soft, inner walls clenching and quivering with the need to be filled. That’s when Cas knows Dean is ready.

                Without preamble, Cas pulls his fingers out of Dean’s hole with an obscene squelch that sounds so filthy when combined with the sweet, gentle music coming from the old film on the TV. Dean huffs a little laugh into the skin of Cas’s neck as if he’s thinking the same thing, and without even knowing why, Cas chuckles too, reaching around between them and spreading the last of the lube on his hand up and down Dean’s erection, which has waned slightly.

                Dean stiffens, and his little laugh melts into a groan, hips twitching forward at the contact briefly before Castiel lets go again, reaching for the condom sitting on the end table. Dean sits back a little, taking the condom from Cas’s hand and smiling wolfishly down at Castiel before lifting the packet to his mouth and tearing it open with his teeth, eyes locked on Cas’s the whole time he does it. And he _knows_ how much that drives Cas crazy.

                Cas’s tongue darts out and licks his lips as he watches Dean toss the wrapper aside and reach down, pulling just the front of Cas’s boxers down so his erection is graciously freed. Dean tucks the waistband of the boxers underneath Castiel’s balls to keep them out of the way, since neither of them are feeling particularly motivated to try to wrestle Castiel out of his pants.

                Cas shudders at the first touch of Dean’s hand on his erection, and Dean grins, stroking him a few times before gently rolling the condom onto Castiel’s weeping dick. Then without pause, Dean shifts, lining Castiel’s cock up with his hole, and slowly sinking down. Both of them hold their breath until Castiel is buried to the hilt inside of Dean, and then they both gasp, Dean collapsing against Castiel’s chest, gripping his shoulders just for something to ground himself.

                For a minute or two, they just remain like that, both of them panting, Castiel fully sheathed inside Dean. It’s Cas who moves first, not pulling out, but rather grinding up further inside of Dean, rolling his hips and nudging his cock further into Dean’s warmth. Dean lets out a strangled groan, his body clenching around Castiel’s length, and Cas reaches up, holding onto Dean’s hips to keep him in place.

                With just the gentle urge of his hands, Dean knows to lift up a little, and then sink back down, Castiel’s dick sliding halfway out and then plunging back in with a wet sound that should be funny, but is instead a huge turn on. Dean moans again, his little grunts and groans intoxicating. He sets up a steady rhythm, rolling his hips up and down in a fluid motion that has Castiel’s cock slipping in and out of him at a slow, teasing pace.

                While Dean rides him, he leans back again and locks lips with Castiel. The moment Dean’s lips touch his, Cas surges up into him, pressing their mouths tightly together and startling a surprised gasp out of Dean as Cas thrusts up _hard_ , ramming himself into Dean’s body and right up into his prostate. Dean cries out, his fingernails digging into the flesh of Cas’s shoulders, and Castiel does it again, fucking up into Dean, picking up the pace for a few minutes until both of them are right on that edge.

                It’s only when Cas feels Dean’s cock twitch against his stomach that he slows down a bit, reaching down and wrapping his hand around the base of Dean’s cock to keep him from coming too soon. Dean gasps into Cas’s mouth, sagging a bit and sinking back down fully onto Castiel’s length, barely taking a break before starting to ride him again, lifting himself up and down on shaking thighs, his soft, inner walls massaging Cas’s erection unbearably.

                Castiel breaks away from the kiss, one hand on Dean’s cock and the other sliding up to the back of Dean’s neck, gripping it tightly as he buries his face in Dean’s shoulder.

                “Fuck,” he grunts breathily, and Dean moans in response, rolling his hips back enough to cause his own cock to slip in Castiel’s hold. Soon, Dean is pistoning himself on Cas’s length while at the same time fucking up into the tight circle of Castiel’s hand.

                Cas gasps again, Dean’s fingernails digging harder into his shoulder, burning as he probably breaks skin, but Cas can barely feel it. “Keep going,” he whispers hoarsely against Dean’s collarbone, spurring Dean on, and in response, Dean rolls his hips faster, his inner thighs rubbing red against the material of Cas’s jeans as he fucks himself down onto Cas’s cock.

                It only takes a few minutes before Dean stiffens, gasping and letting out a long groan. “Fuck, _Cas_ ,” he moans, his hips stuttering, and he jams himself once, twice, three more times down onto Castiel’s cock. Cas feels Dean’s hole flutter rhythmically as his climax hits seconds before he feels the wet burst of Dean’s release splash between their stomachs, painting them both white. Dean cries out, working himself through it, and the fluttering of Dean’s body is enough to push Cas over that edge, and he fucks _up_ once more into Dean’s body, burying himself deep before he’s coming as well, letting the rhythmic flutter of Dean’s hole work him through it as they both moan in unison, rolling their hips to carry themselves through it.

                When Dean’s cock becomes oversensitive, his hips jerk and he whines a little, collapsing forward and resting his forehead against Cas’s shoulder again, both of them breathing hard. Dean’s hands loosen where his fingers were digging into Castiel’s skin, and Cas hisses at the burn where Dean must have broken a bit of skin. Dean hums apologetically and presses his lips to one of the tiny wounds, soothing it.

                When he leans back, Cas smiles gently up at him, both of them exhausted, and he leans up, capturing Dean’s lips again for a slow kiss that’s much less urgent than before. Behind them, the old movie is still playing on the TV, and a sweet woman’s laughter chimes out like music. Even though Castiel has started to soften inside of Dean now that he’s come, he still thrusts up into Dean’s hole a couple more times, just to drag another exhausted moan out of the green eyed boy.

                Cas chuckles and then pulls out finally, hissing again with oversensitivity, and pulling the condom off himself blindly. Dean carefully slides off his lap, using his discarded shirt to mop up Cas’s chest before he cleans up himself, and then they toss all of their clothes in the washer down the hall.

                While Castiel starts up the machine, Dean slips back into the living room, and when Castiel comes back out, Dean is standing there naked, watching the black and white movie on the screen, chuckling at something the man says before he kisses the woman.

                Castiel just stares at Dean for a second, smiling to himself, and then he comes forward and wraps his arms around Dean’s bare stomach, both of them naked as they day they were born. Dean leans back into Cas’s chest for a moment, and then yawns, squeezing his hand and stepping forward to turn off the TV.

                Together, they head upstairs, crawling into Castiel’s soft, warm bed without bothering to pull on any clothes. They just tuck themselves under the covers, laying there face to face with their legs tangled together under the sheets.

                It takes Dean less than ten minutes to drift off, his eyes slipping closed, a tiny smile on his face that fades away as he sinks further into sleep. In the dim light from the hallway, Castiel watches Dean as he sleeps, breathing softly into the pillow, his body warm next to Cas.

                And strangely enough, after such a tumultuous day, Castiel _doesn’t_ think about Alastair. He doesn’t think about the fact that the nightmare is over, and Alastair is _gone_ , _dead_. Because Alastair _is_ gone. And there’s no _point_ in thinking about him anymore. He’s not worth thinking about. Both he and Dean have already wasted so much of their time being angry and sick and afraid of Alastair. It’s time the psychopath was just _out_ of their minds. For good.

                Instead, Castiel thinks about Dean. He thinks about the gentle slope of his lips, his beautiful, sun-kissed cheeks, the fan of his eyelashes and the gorgeous green eyes underneath. He thinks about Dean’s mind, and how beautiful it is, how beautiful _everything_ about this boy is. And for the first time ever, no matter how many times Cas has told this to himself in the past, he _truly_ believes it when he thinks that Dean is going to be alright. And that Cas _himself_ is going to be alright. No more battles, no more pain. Just the future, bright and promising, and happy.

                It’s weird…but Cas actually believes that now. He believes they can get better. Maybe it’ll take time, but he believes it. He really does.


	41. Twenty Things

                The end of senior year arrives a lot faster than anyone expected it to. With sweating their way through finals exams, college preparation, and last minute grade savers, the final two weeks of school go by in a blur. And for some reason, even though Castiel is happy that he’s finally done with high school after four hellish years of his life spent working towards this one final goal, it still feels bittersweet to say goodbye. He’s spent more time in this high school in Rail Pass than he ever did in any other high school for the past four years, so to him, _this_ is his high school, and his home. No matter how many amazing and horrible things happened to him here.

                The amazing things far outweigh the horrible in his mind, despite what others might think about that opinion.

                However, the excitement and anticipation of the future at this particular point in his life is tainted somewhat by the fact that he only has a few more days before he’s going to be homeless, officially. Kicked out on the streets by his own parents. He’s already packed up most of his things, a heavy, hollow feeling blooming in his gut every time he thinks about graduation day coming up much faster than he thought it would. Dean has been helping him to pack up his things, tape them up into boxes and zip them into duffel bags.

                The one good thing about going through his own things and figuring out how to compact his belongings was that Castiel finally went through and gave away to Goodwill about ninety percent of the stupid souvenir shop t-shirts his father has bought him over the years. Most of them were too small for him anyway, and the rest…well, Castiel doesn’t want a reminder of his father if Bartholomew doesn’t want to be a part of his life anymore.

                Missouri took Castiel out last week and insisted on buying him seven or eight new sets of clothes, just so he has something to wear. Cas has never actually shopped for his own clothing very seriously, so he had Dean come with and pick out what he liked. At least Castiel looks more like an adult now, with his new wardrobe – he has nice jeans and button up shirts, plain t-shirts from those three-packs at Walmart, and even a couple flannels that Dean insisted he get.

                To Castiel’s amusement, Dean flushes bright red every time Cas shows up at school or answers his door wearing one of the flannels. So Cas wears them often, if only to see Dean’s cheeks heat with that gorgeous pink. He’s so beautiful when he gets all hot and bothered.

                 In addition to school, Castiel has been working nonstop at Bobby’s craft shop, trying to save up his money in the hopes that he’ll be able to camp out in a motel or something until he figures out where to go from there. Bobby has been very generous, and Castiel has noticed on his paychecks that there are extra zeros occasionally at the end of his deposit. Dean must have told Bobby about Castiel’s predicament.

                He continues to receive brochures and information packets from Johnson State College in the mail throughout the next couple of weeks, with information about dorms, on-campus apartments, class schedules, textbooks, and pretty much everything under the sun that Castiel has to pay an extra hundred bucks for. As happy as he is that he got into college, his complete lack of money has him stressed to the max, and one afternoon, he breaks down in his bedroom among the packed up boxes and the stripped mattress, and remains there crying until Dean shows up over an hour later and manages to calm him down.

                Castiel has never been this emotional of a person before, but maybe it’s a _good_ thing that he’s finally starting to _feel_ all of this. Maybe it’s a good thing that he’s learning how to feel at all. Maybe his counseling sessions with Cara have been paying off. If he opens the door to good emotions, it’s not like he’s going to escape the bad ones either, right? That’s what Dean says anyway, and it does make Cas feel better, even if he still has the big issue of money and his living situation to sort out.

                His stress levels diminish slightly when Missouri helps Castiel take out some student loans, to at least pay for a couple semesters up at Johnson State. College is ridiculously expensive though, so Castiel tries to pawn some of his things, in the hopes that he can save enough money to afford books, and maybe a used car to sleep in, if nothing else. A car would be nice to have – he’d have a roof over his head at least, and a way to get back and forth from Johnson to Rail Pass so he can see Dean and everyone else while he’s away at college next semester. He has a whole summer to save money, and to his immense relief, there are people here who care and are willing to help him reach his goals, even if it’s going to hurt like hell along the way.

                Missouri has offered to allow Castiel to stay with her after graduation, at least for a little while. She wouldn’t let him refuse, and he’s so grateful to have her in his life. Before graduation day even comes, Dean helps Castiel lug his boxes of belongings over to Missouri’s house and store them in her basement until he figures out a better place for them. He sets up in Missouri’s guest bedroom where Anna often spends the night, but Cas feels guilty for being here. Even if he’s being kicked out of his own house unwillingly, he’s still eighteen years old. He should be able to support himself, he’s an adult now. He vows to himself to save his money and get out of Missouri’s house as soon as possible, if only to prove to his parents and everyone else that he _can_ do this. He _can_ live independently.

                The morning of his last day of high school, Castiel comes out of the bathroom from brushing his teeth after breakfast and finds Anna standing in the hallway outside his bedroom – or, well, his old bedroom anyway. There’s nothing left in there but his nightstand and the bed by now, with just a pillow and a blanket that he’s been sleeping with. Even the crane mobile is gone.

                Castiel stops when he sees Anna standing there, staring into the bedroom, her hands hanging limp at her sides. When she realizes he’s there, she looks over at him, and Castiel’s heart sinks when he sees that she’s on the verge of crying, her chin quivering and her eyes wide and round, welling with tears. God, he hasn’t seen her this sad in a long time.

                “Anna?” he asks, taking a step forward, “What’s wrong?”

                She stands there for a moment, and then a couple tears spill down her cheeks and she sniffs, turning towards him but not making any moves to approach him. “What am I gonna do without you here?” she asks, her voice cracking, and she sniffles, reaching up and wiping the back of her hand under her nose.

                Castiel’s face crumples, and his shoulders sag. “Oh, Anna,” he says, coming forward and pulling her into a hug. She buries her face against his stomach and starts crying into his shirt.

                “Why are mom and dad doing this?” she asks, voice muddled with her tears, “You didn’t even _do_ anything!”

                Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He struggles for words, glancing into his nearly-empty bedroom and gritting his teeth before looking down at the top of her head. He reaches a hand up and strokes her hair. God, he sees so much of himself in her. There was a time when Castiel was Anna’s age, and he just didn’t _understand_ why they always had to move around, why Bartholomew and Naomi were never there. And for the first part of Cas’s life, he was alone, before Anna was born. He never thought Anna would have to live alone like he did, not ever. No child should have to live completely alone at such a young age.

                He shakes his head a little when Anna only continues to cry into his shirt. “I know,” he says, pulling her away from himself and kneeling down so he’s eye-level with her. She sniffles and doesn’t even bother trying to wipe away her own tears. Castiel swipes his thumb across her cheek, trying to brush some of them away, smoothing her hair back from her face.

                “Listen,” he says, “It may seem like I’m leaving, but I’m not, okay?”

                Anna crinkles her forehead. “But you _are_ Cas,” she says, voice breaking again as a fresh tear rolls down her cheek, staining it again, “Mom and dad are kicking you out. You _are_ leaving.”

                Castiel shakes his head, holding her by her shoulders. “No, I’m not,” he replies, “Yes I won’t live here anymore, but I’m not leaving, not for good, okay? It may feel like I’m gone, but I’m never going to be.”

                He stares at her earnestly, and she just looks at him for a moment, her face scrunching up a little before more tears squeeze their way out of her eyes. With a little sob, she falls forward and buries her face in his shoulder, winding her skinny little arms around his back.

                Castiel just kneels there and holds her, feeling guilt ripping at his insides. God, he doesn’t know what to _do_.

                “I’m never going to abandon you Anna,” he promises, swallowing hard, “You hear me? I’ll always be here, just a phone call away. If you ever need anything.”

                She cries into the shoulder of his shirt and nods a little, and Castiel is relieved that he’s hearing her. He swallows again, rubbing his hand up and down her shaking back.

                “I know it doesn’t make any sense to you,” he says, “But sometimes things just happen, and you have to take it as it comes. You’ll always have me, but I couldn’t stay here forever, right?” He smiles a little when she chokes out a laugh, and sighs heavily. “Missouri is right next door if you ever need anything, and dad said we could keep this house, so I’ll only be a couple towns over, always, if you ever need me.”

                Anna sniffles, pulling away from Cas’s shoulder to wipe at her tear-stained face. “I know,” she eventually says, gulping and hiccupping as she calms down a bit. She pauses, looking down at the floor between her shoes. “It sucks though.”

                Cas huffs a little laugh. “Yes it does,” he agrees, giving her a little smile, which she returns hesitantly.

                He stares at her for a moment, and then pushes himself to his feet, taking her hand. “Come on,” he says, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

                Cas leads her into the bathroom, using a warm washcloth to mop up her face. He feels a terrible, hard knot situating itself in his chest for her. Guilt and shame and regret. All he wants is for Anna to have everything Castiel didn’t have. He hopes to god that Bartholomew decides to keep this house in Rail Pass in the long run, and that Anna will have some permanence, if nothing else. Missouri has been more of a mother to both of them in the past several months than Naomi has been in all the years of their life. At least Anna has that. At least she has Missouri.

                Missouri already promised Castiel that she’d take care of Anna while he’s away at college, and Castiel trusts her to do so. Castiel believes that Missouri will do that for him, and for Anna. And Cas can see it in that amazing woman’s eyes: Missouri loves Anna like she’s her own daughter. And that’s what Cas is counting on. Anna won’t be alone here like Castiel was for so many years of his own life. She’ll be taken care of and loved, and she won’t grow up to have a mental breakdown like Castiel did. She’ll grow up stable and normal and happy, even without Bartholomew and Naomi there to provide her with that illusion of a family when their own family is really so broken.

                When Cas finishes cleaning up Anna’s face, they head out the front door together. He walks her over to Missouri’s house, and when Missouri answers, she doesn’t look surprised at the puffy circles under Anna’s eyes from the crying. She just ushers Anna into the house, and before Castiel can thank her and head off towards the last day of his high school career, Missouri catches him by the arm and pulls him in for a tight hug.

                And this time, Castiel doesn’t stiffen and hesitate before hugging her back – he just does it. He hugs her back and he holds onto her tightly, for as long as he wants to. Because Missouri is never the first one to let go, and Cas trusts the way she feels about him, and trusts that she’ll always be there. And that kind of faith is something he’s never experienced in his entire life.

               

*       *       *

 

                Like poetry, Dean and Castiel spend their very last class of their entire high school career that day together, in Mr. Wyatt’s math class. Everyone in the class is a senior, and they’re all too wired and jittery to really pay attention to any last-minute lessons that would be pointless anyway. So Mr. Wyatt just lets everyone hang out and chat throughout the whole last hour of high school – according to him, Principal Roman banned the teachers from releasing students early from their classes. School policy, or whatever.

                Dean lounges in his chair with his boots kicked up on the surface of Castiel’s desk, and Cas mindlessly fiddles with Dean’s shoelaces while they chat, everyone else around them rowdy and excited and laughing. Dean and Cas don’t talk about anything particularly important, they just sit there and talk, like they always do, and Dean thinks that it’s the best way he’s ever spent a class period at this godforsaken school.

                Mr. Wyatt comes around to the little gathered groups of people, congratulating them for their successes and wishing them well after graduation, even though he’ll probably be there on graduation day in a few days to do the same thing all over again. When he stops in front of Dean’s desk, to Dean’s surprise, Mr. Wyatt holds out his hand with a little smile, and Dean reaches up, giving him a firm handshake.

                “Congratulations Dean,” he says genuinely, “I’m very proud of all the hard work you’ve put forward this year in my class.”

                Dean swallows, looking up at his teacher, and he just nods, giving Mr. Wyatt a small smile before letting go of his hand. He doesn’t really know how to react to that. Most, if not all, of the teachers in Dean’s past have only really seen him as that fuck up burnout kid who hangs out at The Docks and only shows up to class once a week. No other teacher has been willing to _try_ with Dean. But for some reason, Mr. Wyatt tried. He gave Dean second chances that Dean certainly didn’t deserve, he seemed authentic and _proud_ when Dean started sitting at the front of the classroom instead of the back (never mind the real reason for that was because Castiel was sitting up here).

                As uncomfortable as it makes Dean feel to have Mr. Wyatt’s respect, it also makes him feel warm inside. Very, _very_ few adults have ever taken a spare moment to show Dean a little respect, and even admiration. And even if Mr. Wyatt is going around congratulating everyone, it still feels good that he took a second to congratulate Dean too.

                After their teacher pats Cas on the back and moves on to other groups of students in the room, Dean and Cas exchange a glance and grin at each other, snorting a little.

                Cas rests his chin in his palm, twirling Dean’s shoelace around his finger and sighing. “Do you think you’ll miss it here?” he asks, and Dean pulls his binder out, opening it and flipping aimlessly through the old pages of math notes.

                “Are you serious?” he asks, “Of course not. This school fucking blows.”

                Castiel huffs a little laugh, dropping Dean’s shoelace and picking at a loose little string at the end of Dean’s pant leg on his desk. “It’s not _all_ bad,” he disagrees, glancing over at Dean where Dean is fixing him with a look, “Give it a couple months. I predict you’ll miss it.”

                Dean rolls his eyes. “What’s there to miss?” he asks, running his fingers over the indentations of his handwriting on a page in his binder, “This school is literally a cesspool of bad memories.”

                Castiel chuckles. “You’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?” he points out, and Dean smirks, shrugging one shoulder in response. Castiel studies him for a moment and then sighs again, releasing the little string at the cuff of Dean’s jeans and turning to face him more.

                “I mean, what about the cafeteria? Won’t you miss that?” he asks, nodding his head towards the ceiling, “We had a lot of really fun lunch hours up there, didn’t we?”

                Dean purses his lip, and then pops his eyebrows. “Yeah, I guess,” he replies, “But, I mean, it’s not like any of us died or anything, you know? We have plenty of time to make more memories. We’ll just hang out at Biggerson’s or something. They probably have better food than our cafeteria does.”

                Castiel snorts, cocking his head a little like he agrees with that statement. He’s quiet for a second, and then perks up again. “Well, what about the bathroom?” he asks, and Dean raises his eyebrows.

                “You’re asking me if I’m going to miss the _bathroom_?”

                Cas rolls his eyes, nodding his head towards the door to the classroom. “I mean the Dungeon bathroom,” he says, “I can think of a few choice memories you and I have made in there.”

                Castiel fixes Dean with a mischievous look, and Dean flushes red for a moment before biting his lip and looking down at his binder, swallowing back a laugh. Cas _has_ a point. Maybe there are things about this school that Dean will miss, but not many. Most of his years spent here were really fucking shitty, save for a few good memories sprinkled in.

                He’s quiet for a moment, rifling through his binder. Without really thinking, he grips the corner of a piece of paper he sees sticking out of the front pocket of his binder and pulls it out. His eyebrows raise in surprise, and a small smile touches his lips. It’s the origami angel, the one Cas helped him make that night at Bobby’s shop. When he glances up, Cas is looking at him questioningly, and Dean holds up the angel.

                “Check it out,” he says, grinning, “I think this is the longest I’ve ever gone without losing something like this.”

                Castiel huffs a small laugh, reaching out and taking the angel, smoothing down the bent corners with his nimble fingers. Dean watches his hands for a moment, entranced by the way they work their magic on that paper. After a minute or two, he pulls in a breath.

                “There might be things that I’ll miss about this place,” he says, pausing and then sighing, “But honestly? All the _really_ good things that came out of this school are things I’m taking with me when we leave.”

                Cas cocks his head to the side, glancing up from the angel. “Like what?” he asks, and Dean looks over at him, giving him another little smirk.

                “Like you,” he replies, and Castiel pauses for a moment, staring at Dean with a soft look before he punches Dean’s boot still on his desk.

                “You’re such a suck up,” he scolds, and Dean laughs, throwing his head back as a wad of paper goes sailing by his face from one of the groups of students in the back.

                It only takes a few minutes before Mr. Wyatt returns to the front of the classroom, glancing at the clock and then clapping his hands once to get the class’s attention.

                “Alright everyone!” he calls out, “I know I’m not technically supposed to, but you all can go a little early. Thank you for a successful year.”

                Everyone in the class cheers, and the loud scraping of chairs and desks fills the small space as everyone jumps up, grabbing their backpacks and flooding out into the hallway. Dean swings his feet off of Cas’s desk and the two of them stand up, sticking together as they follow the swarms out into the Dungeon.

                Dean is surprised to find that all the other classes have let their students out early too. He glances at the clock – there’s only about three minutes left before the bell rings and his high school days are _officially_ over. Despite the fact that Dean’s not one to get all caught up in traditions, he feels an excited flutter in his chest. Because _this is it_. He’s _finally_ getting out of here. He’s finally grown up, even if he still feels like a child.

                “Cas, Dean, there you are!” Dean hears someone calling their name before Charlie and Dorothy come shoving their way through the crowds of students loitering in the hall. Charlie throws her arms around Dean’s neck in a quick hug. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

                Dean’s forehead crinkles and he chuckles. “Why?” he asks, and Charlie rolls her eyes.

                “For the countdown, dummy!” she yells over the roar of the students in the hallway. The Dungeon hall isn’t all that big, but as Dean looks around, he swears there have to be at least a couple hundred people jam packed into this small corridor.

                “What countdown?” he shouts back, “Where are Gabe and Kevin?”

                Right on cue, Dean feels something hard smack him right in the ass, and he jumps, yelping in a very undignified manner.

                “Afternoon everybody!” Gabe sing-songs, grinning widely and presenting himself with outstretched arms like he’s the king of the fucking world. Dean glares at him and tries to smack him across the head, but Gabe skillfully dodges it.

                Kevin is right behind him, huddling close. “Just so you know, I hate all of you people,” he grumbles, “My last day isn’t until next week.”

                Dorothy chuckles beside Charlie. “Sucks being a junior, doesn’t it?”

                Castiel huffs a little laugh. “You likely won’t be saying that when Kevin ends up rich and famous in a few years,” he points out, and Kevin gives him a sheepish smile.

                “That’s the plan,” he says, trying to shrug off the compliment.

                “ _One minute!”_ someone down the hall shouts, and everyone starts cheering, anticipation thick and cloying in the air. Dean reaches back and grabs Castiel’s hand so he doesn’t lose him in the crowd, and they give each other a small smile.

                It takes an impossibly long amount of time for fifty seconds to go by, but when the minute hand on the hallway wall clock finally manages to hit that ten second mark, Dean flinches a little as everyone starts counting in unison, including Charlie and Dorothy beside him.

                “ ** _Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!_** ” everyone shouts together. Gabe is standing in front of Dean, punctuating every number with a punch of his fist into the air. Even Kevin is counting down, despite the fact that it’s not even his last day.

                “ ** _Six! Five!_** ” When Dean glances back at Cas, Castiel is grinning and counting down too, and Dean smiles when he sees how happy Cas looks. Cas sees him staring and he nudges his shoulder, encouraging Dean to count with the rest of them, and Dean looks back over at the clock.

                “ ** _Four! Three! Two! One!_** ”

                The bell rings, and everyone in the hallway erupts into cheers, jumping up and down and throwing their papers in the air. Dean can’t help but laugh at the sheer _energy_ of it all. There are football players pounding their fists against the lockers, people whistling through their fingers, wads of paper being thrown like confetti. Someone even brought party poppers, and with several loud bangs, strings of smoky, rainbow ribbons shoot out across the crowd of screaming seniors, like this is a freaking New Year’s party instead of the last day of school.

                Dean feels a hand at his shoulder, and when he turns around, Cas leans in and presses their lips together. It’s a gentle kiss, directly in contrast to the screaming, excited crowd around them. Dean smiles and presses into the kiss a bit, Castiel’s hand winding around and pulling Dean in by the small of his back so they’re pressed flush together.

                Every time he kisses Castiel, sounds just sort of seem to dim. The world around him slows down, and it’s just Dean and Cas, standing here, their lips moving together, tongues dipping inside each other’s mouths in a way that always manages to make Dean shiver. Even now, the other students still stare, like it’s the weirdest thing to see Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak kissing. But they don’t know the truth – they don’t know that Dean and Cas, despite their tumultuous start, were made to be this beautiful thing together.

                The kiss feels like it lasts for hours before Gabe and Kevin start making gagging noises and pry Dean and Cas apart.

                “You two are positively nauseating,” Gabe says, even as Charlie comes up and winds her arms around Dean’s shoulders from behind, jumping up to plant a kiss on his cheek.

                “ _I_ think you two are _adorable_ ,” she argues, before kissing Castiel’s cheek as well, startling Cas a bit despite the fact that Charlie has done that to him more times than Dean can count.

                Dean snorts, rolling his eyes, and he grabs Castiel’s hand, leading the way out the Dungeon doors to the parking lot outside the school. The entire rowdy crowd of students is slowly flooding outside, walking out the doors of the high school for the last time ever (at least, until graduation).

                When they get out there, Dean spots Gordon, Zach and Crowley sitting at The Docks, not really celebrating with everyone else, just smoking and watching as students pour out of the school. Dean waves his hand to get Crowley’s attention, and the Brit sees him after a couple of moments. He doesn’t wave back, just exhales a plume of smoke into the air and then stomps out his cigarette, saying something to Gordon and Zach that Dean can’t hear from where he is before Crowley stands up and crosses the parking lot to Dean and his friends.

                “Hey!” Charlie greets, all sunshine and happiness, her perkiness a hilarious contrast to Crowley’s glower.

                Crowley simply nods at her, and then looks up at Dean.

                “Hey man, why aren’t you celebrating?” Dean asks, and Crowley shrugs.

                “I’ve never been one for the crowds,” he replies, and Dean snorts, rolling his eyes.

                He glances around, seeing swarms of people leaving in groups in their cars, off to celebrate somewhere. He heard there was another party at Bela Talbot’s mansion in Johnson, but he’d rather just stay in town for tonight.

                “You guys wanna go down to Benny’s place?” Dean offers, “I think he’s having a special for the senior class. Free crawfish or something.”

                Gabe scoffs. “Only if there’s dessert involved,” he says, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                “Come on, I’ll drive,” Charlie offers, lacing her hand through Dorothy’s. She leads the way to her car in the parking lot, and the seven of them, Crowley included, cram themselves into the tiny vehicle, practically sitting on top of each other. It’s probably illegal, to drive around like this, but Charlie doesn’t seem to care, laughing and turning up some horrible pop station as she peals out of the parking lot, windows rolled down and sunglasses on.

                Dean grins at how crazy she is as he leans over between the bumps in the road and nips at Castiel’s jaw playfully where they’re squished between Gabriel and Crowley. Kevin is laying across all four of their laps, his head resting against Crowley’s thigh, and Dean tries to bite back his amusement at the way Kevin keeps trying to have a conversation with Crowley, talking up to him from his lap, asking about what his plans are after graduation and such. Crowley just stares down at him with the same look he might have if he found gum on the bottom of his shoe.

                Benny’s Cajun place is crowded when they get there, packed to the brim with seniors and disgruntled families, but Benny spots Dean walking in with his friends and snags them a booth in the back towards the kitchen. He doesn’t even give them menus, just cooks them all up a quick house special, waving his hand dismissively when they try to pay for it. They’re served big steaming plates of crawfish, with Po’ boy sandwiches and corn and just about every other amazing thing that Benny brought here from Louisiana.

                When they’ve all eaten enough to feel like they’re full to bursting, Benny sneaks them back into the kitchen area in front of a huge, authentically made brick oven with a hatch, and together the seven of them dump all their old worksheets and used up notebooks and school books from their high school days into the fire, watching it all burn. Benny insists that it’s tradition to burn all your books after you leave high school, everyone knows that, and then he comes up and pats Dean companionably on the back.

                “Congrats brother,” he says, giving Dean a little sideways smile, “I’m proud of you.”

                Dean quirks a small smile at Benny as well, thanking him, and eventually, they all disperse, going their separate ways. Crowley farewells Dean and wanders off down the street, presumably towards Zach’s house in the woods. Gabe hitches a ride with Mrs. Tran when she comes to pick Kevin up, and Charlie and Dorothy drive Cas and Dean back to Cas’s house, dropping them off before turning their car towards the road out of town. Charlie had mentioned they’re planning on going to the party in Johnson, and Dean had rolled his eyes. It doesn’t surprise him – Charlie is such a party animal.

                Dean winds his hand through Cas’s where they’re standing on Castiel’s front lawn, leaning over and planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth before grinning widely at him.

                “C’mon,” he says, tugging Cas towards his house, “I think we have some celebrating of our _own_ to do, don’t you?”

                Castiel rolls his eyes, even as he flushes red, and together the two of them head inside, barely able to keep their hands off of each other on the way.

 

*       *       *

 

                Dean wakes up the next morning swaddled in blankets in Castiel's bed, rolled up like a cocoon, confused about the fact that he can't see anything until he realizes his head is buried too. Sputtering a little, he digs his way out from under the tangle, freeing his face, and blinks at the bright sun streaming into Castiel's bedroom window. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he sees Cas laying there on his stomach next to him, without any blankets at all, snoring face pressed peacefully into his pillow.

                And Dean can't help it - he just stares for a while. Because _fuck_ , Cas is so fucking beautiful. Dean stopped questioning himself a while ago now, stopped questioning why he deserves such an amazingly gorgeous human being. The sun is streaming down through the needles of the evergreen outside the window, painting Castiel's bare skin with wispy bars of light, crisscrossing each other in a pattern that looks like a mandala (and don't even _ask_ Dean how he knows what a mandala is).

                When Dean shifts a little, he grimaces at the itchy pull of dry come on the inside of his thighs and his lower belly, and then immediately hisses at the soreness of his ass that catches up to him seconds later. They forgot to clean up before they fell asleep. Dean's not even sure how many times he and Cas went last night. Does it count if you don't pull out between rounds? Dean's not sure, but he either got fucked once very, _very_ thoroughly, or he was fucked three times last night in a variety of semi-illegal positions.

                Even though he's the only one awake right now, he still finds himself blushing, even as he can't fight the grin that spreads across his face. Yeah, he really has no idea what he did to deserve such an amazing boyfriend.

                With a quiet grunt and some squirming, he manages to free one arm from the cage of blankets around him, using his liberated limb to shove the rest of the blankets aside. Castiel stirs beside him, his forehead creasing momentarily into a little pout before smoothing out again. Dean freezes, waiting until Castiel stills before sliding the rest of the way out of the ball of bedding.

                He's a _mess_. There are dark bruises littering his thighs and stomach, and rings of bite marks that Dean doesn't even remember receiving. Jesus, they took their celebrating _really_ seriously last night. He runs his hand gently over the faint, finger-shapes bruises on his hipbone for a moment before sitting up slowly, angling himself awkwardly to keep his weight off his sore ass.

                When he glances down at Castiel, Cas is completely naked too, the mandala pattern continuing down the globes of his ass and his muscular legs. Dean hesitates, and then reaches out, his hand hovering over Castiel's smooth, shadow-painted skin, wanting to touch, like this is the first time he's ever seen this boy. He wonders if he'll ever get used to this - he wonders if seeing Cas like this will ever get old. He notices with some mild satisfaction that Castiel has some bruises of his own, finger marks on his ass that Dean vaguely remembers putting there while he was pulling Castiel in.

                He flushes red all over again at the fresh memory, feeling himself stir slightly before he shuts those thoughts down. He needs to get home, has to check on Sammy. Sam spent the night at the Singer's last night, but Bobby said something about them going on a weekend trip somewhere and Sam being dropped off early this morning back at their house. Even if John Winchester hasn't emerged from his bedroom in days - god, _weeks_ \- for anything more than a little food or a piss, it doesn't mean that Dean's not being careful. He doesn't want Sam getting caught at the wrong end of a bad temper while Dean has his guard down.

                With a little sigh, Dean tries to put thoughts of his father out of his head, if only for a few minutes. Rubbing the last of his sleep out of his eyes, he leans over, hovering over Castiel's bare back for a minute before dipping down and placing a gentle, openmouthed kiss to Cas's shoulder. Castiel doesn't move, so Dean grins and does it again, a little lower, trailing kisses down Cas's shoulder blade and over his ribs.

                It's only when Dean reaches the little dip at the small of Castiel's back that Cas stirs, making a sleepy little noise. Dean smiles, not stopping, pressing his lips to the shadows on Castiel's salty skin, kissing back up the dip of his spine. Cas hums a little, and shifts, and Dean glances up at his face to find the corner of his mouth quirked in a tiny smile. Dean huffs a little laugh, his breath washing over Castiel's bare skin, raising goose bumps there.

                Dean climbs on top of Cas, blanketing his back, and nips lightly at his shoulder, his earlobe, his neck, and finally reaching forward, taking his chin and tilting his face so he can kiss his lips. Cas doesn't even open his eyes, just kisses Dean back lazily for a few minutes. And even if it's an awkward angle, Dean is still satisfied, because Cas is the first thing he wants to taste in the morning, the first thing he wants to see, to smell, to feel.

                When the kiss finally ends, Castiel yawns, turning his face into his pillow and stretching, the trim lines of his body pulling taut like a cat beneath Dean.      

                ”What time is it?" Cas asks, his voice rough with sleep, and Dean glances over at the clock on Cas's nightstand.

                "A little after eight," he murmurs in reply, keeping his voice low as he places another kiss on the back of Castiel's shoulder, "I have to go. Sammy's gonna be home soon."

                Cas makes a little noise of protest into his pillow, grumbling and rolling over under Dean so they're facing each other. Dean laughs at how disheveled he looks, reaching up and smoothing his crazy hair back from his forehead.

                "Do you have to?" Cas whines, and Dean rolls his eyes.

                "I'll be back later, I promise," he says, leaning down with the intention of giving Cas a quick peck on the lips. Instead, though, Castiel arches his neck up, capturing Dean's lower lip between his teeth and nipping at it gently, pulling it out and letting it pop back into place. Dean freezes in place, staring down at Castiel as Cas looks up at him through half-lidded, crystalline eyes, looking positively godlike.

                It takes Dean all of two seconds before he leans down and kisses him again, and Castiel huffs a little happy breath, ever the eager participant, kissing Dean hungrily and sliding his hand up Dean's bare chest to his neck, resting it there the way he _knows_ Dean likes, applying just enough pressure to where Dean can feel his pulse beating past Castiel's palm. Like it's beating _for_ Castiel.

                They lay there kissing for what could be minutes, or could be hours. It's only when Cas shifts beneath him, the firm top of his thigh nudging at Dean's cock, that Dean realizes he's begun to harden. He breaks away from the kiss, groaning and pressing his forehead to Castiel's.

                "Damn it, why must you torture me?" he moans, practically whining, "I have to _go_ , I don't have time."

                Cas shakes his head, tightening his hold slightly around Dean's neck. "You have time," he insists breathily, his free hand sliding down Dean's side and landing on his ass, "We'll make it quick."

                Dean pulls in a sharp breath when Castiel squeezes his ass, starting to shake his head in protest. But before he can say anything, make any more excuses, Castiel arches up, capturing his lips again and effectively gagging him with his own mouth. And damn it, it works, because how can Dean possibly say no when Castiel is laying under him like this practically begging for it?

                He knows the moment his body makes the decision for him, because his cock, which at first was only beginning to harden hesitantly, suddenly springs to life, filling so fast Dean is halfway convinced he might pass out. Castiel hums in satisfaction when he feels Dean rolls his hips forward, grinding his hardening dick against Castiel's thigh. Cas lifts his leg slightly, nudging it against Dean's crotch, giving him a better angle, which tears a low moan out of Dean's throat.

                And of course, it takes Castiel all of two minutes before he suddenly flips them over, uprooting Dean so fast that he barely has a moment to notice before his back hits the mattress and Castiel is on top of him, his hand still clasped around Dean's neck. But Dean is getting used to this, and their mouths never leave each other as they reestablish their rhythm. Cas rolls his hips down roughly against the crease between Dean's stomach and thigh, like he's imagining fucking Dean right now. But both of them know they don't have time for that.

                So Castiel reaches between them with his free hand. When Dean tries to reach too, Cas tightens his hold around his neck as a warning, and Dean grunts and stills, smiling against Castiel's lips before a moan is forced out of him when Cas closes his hand around both of their cocks. Dean's legs fall apart, giving Cas more room, and he's rewards with a stroke of Castiel's thumb along the side of his neck that mirrors the stroke of his hand up and down both of their dicks. Cas squeezes hard enough to the point where it's almost painful, and Dean whimpers, his forehead creasing at the confusing mix of pleasure and pain that he's growing more and more used to the longer he and Cas are together.

                God, it's amazing how quickly Cas can take Dean apart. How _easily_. Dean has never been this way, not with anyone else. He's never been this easy to take apart piece by piece, until he met Castiel. But Cas knows just the right amount of pressure to put on Dean's throat, just the right spots to massage, just the right angle and speed.

                Dean ruts up into the tight circle of Castiel's hand, and Cas matches his rhythm stroke for stroke. Both of them are still tired, and the rolls of their hips are lazy and languid, neither of them taking too long to tease each other before Dean's whole body stiffens and he lets out a soft cry, spilling over Castiel's fingers at the same time as Cas. Their moans are perfectly in unison, and for a moment, Castiel's entire body freezes up before they both collapse into the bed, Castiel laying on top of Dean, releasing their spent cocks, his hand covered in come.

                Dean lays there panting for a moment, Cas's other hand still wrapped around his neck, Dean's pulse racing past the strong grip. But he likes it. It makes him feel cherished - it makes him feel like he belongs to somebody, belongs to Castiel.

                And _fuck_ , how did they go from Dean needing to leave, to staying in bed for another round? God, at this point, Dean is sure he's not going to have enough come left in him to ejaculate past the age of thirty.

                Licking his bruised lips, he reaches down and takes hold of Castiel's come-covered hand, bringing it up to his mouth. He mostly does it just so he can see the look on Castiel's face - if nothing else, he _loves_ the way Cas reacts to the things Dean does in bed sometimes. Cas lifts his face from where it was buried in Dean's neck as Dean sucks one of Cas's fingers into his mouth, licking it clean of their spend, locking eyes with his boyfriend as he cleans first one, and then the next, and the next, darting his tongue between Cas's fingers as well and swallowing all the come down.

                Cas just stares at him, his eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and when Dean is done, Castiel dips down and locks lips with him again, licking the taste of them both out of Dean's mouth, their essence mingling on their tongues. And maybe it should be gross, but for some reason, Dean finds it incredibly arousing, and he smiles into the kiss, using Castiel's momentary distraction to flip them back over, Cas's hand finally falling away from Dean's neck.

                Dean takes both of Cas's wrists and pins them to the bed, tsking and pulling away as Castiel tries to arch up and kiss him again. "Alright, you've had your fun, now I have to _go_ ," Dean says, laughing at the grumpy expression on Castiel's face.

                He leans down and presses a little kiss to the tip of Castiel's nose, laying there for a moment to gather his energy again. He's decided that morning orgasms are the best orgasms.

                Cas pouts up at him as Dean slides off the bed. "Are you sure you have to go?" he asks, and Dean laughs again, leaning down to kiss Castiel one more time before grabbing the tangled blankets and dumping them all on top of his blue eyed boyfriend.

                "Sammy's home alone. I have to check on him," he says, scooping his boxers up from the floor and starting to pull them on before grimacing at the come from last night and this morning coating his body.

                When he looks back at Cas accusatorily, Cas just tucks his arms behind his head and gives Dean an innocent look. Dean rolls his eyes and heads towards the bedroom door, opening it and peeking out for a moment.

                "Anna's not home yet, is she?" he asks, and Cas snorts from where he's laying on the bed shamelessly staring at Dean's naked body.

                "Missouri is taking Anna and Jesse out to that new donut place in town this morning," he replies, and Dean looks back at him.

                "That place where they make your donut right in front you?" he asks, and Cas nods. Dean's eyes widen. "Awesome!" he says, "I'm so jealous."

                Cas rolls his eyes, waving his hand towards the door. "Go, get cleaned up," he says, and Dean chuckles, slipping out into the hallway and down to the bathroom for a moment. He mops himself up with a wet washcloth, scrubbing at his bruise-littered skin before rinsing the cloth out and hanging it to dry. When he returns to Cas's bedroom, Castiel has already rolled over onto his stomach, and Dean resists the urge to start mapping out his body with his mouth again as he pulls on his clothes, stepping into his boots.

                Leaning down, he places a kiss to Cas's upturned cheek again and Cas mumbles a farewell, already half-asleep again. Dean chuckles and reaches down, smacking him once lightly on the ass and startling a little disgruntled noise out of the blue eyed boy.

                Then, with one more glance at Castiel's gloriously naked form, Dean smiles and slips out of the room.

 

*       *       *

 

                Sam is already home when Dean gets there, working on homework in the kitchen. Dean rolls his eyes when he sees that.

                “Why are you _still_ doing homework?” he snorts, “You only have like a week of school left before summer break.”

                Sam doesn’t even look up from his paper. “If I finish this and turn it in by Monday morning, I get extra credit points and a different book to read over the summer.”

                Dean snorts, raising in hands. “Oh, a _different_ book. What a treat!”

                Sam rolls his eyes, picking up his eraser and throwing it at Dean without looking. It hits Dean in the center of his chest and he raises his eyebrows, impressed as the little rubber square falls to the floor. “I’ve already read both the books we have to choose from, but I’d rather read _Catcher in the Rye_ again over _To Kill a Mockingbird_.”

                Dean purses his lips, sinking down in the chair opposite to Sam, kicking his feet up on the table. He hums. “I would’ve thought you’d like to read _To Kill a Mockingbird_ more,” he muses, “With all your law school talk these days.”

                Sam glances up from his work, giving Dean a little smile but saying nothing more. Dean studies his little brother for a moment before snorting and pushing himself to his feet. There’s a full bottle of whiskey sitting in the middle of the kitchen counter. Dean eyes it briefly as he makes his way over to the fridge. The whiskey has been sitting in the same place on the counter for weeks. Dean doesn’t know why it’s there, but he doesn’t dare touch it.

                When he opens the fridge, there’s a six pack of beer sitting inside that’s been there for a while too. He smirks when he sees it and reaches out, grabbing one and kicking the door shut, twisting the cap off as Sam glances back at him. “Little early, don’t you think?”

                Dean takes a long swallow before peering down at the label. “Yeah, but this is Pabst. It’s like piss water, so it doesn’t really count.”

                Sam snorts and looks back down at his homework, scribbling a few more things into the bottom corner of his paper and then closing his notebook, sitting back with a sigh. They’re quiet for a second, and then Sam turns in his chair. “Jess wanted to hang out today. Can we ride into town to see a movie?”

                Dean smirks as he takes another drink of his beer before setting the bottle down on the counter and fishing in his pocket for his wallet. He pulls out a twenty and hands it over to his brother. “You’ll need this,” he says, Sam’s face lighting up as he takes the bill. Dean grins down at his brother, and Sam pushes himself up from the chair, packing up his things.

                “Thanks Dean,” he says, stopping and looking up at his older brother. Dean shrugs, reaching out and ruffling Sam’s hair before giving him a shove towards the hallway.

                “Change before you leave though,” he says, eyeing Sam’s sweatpants, “You look like you just rolled out of a dumpster.”

                Sam snorts as he heads towards his room. “Speak for yourself,” he says, and Dean looks down at his clothes. It takes him a second to realize that his shirt is on inside out _and_ backwards, and he groans to himself, shedding his flannel and pulling his shirt off by the back of the neck, quickly righting it before giving the armpit a smell test.

                He pauses, and then decides he should probably change anyway. He grabs his beer, takes another swig, and then gathers his clothing, walking back to his own room shirtless and dumping the old clothes in the ever-growing pile in the corner, fishing in his dresser for something else to wear.

                He turns as he sheds his pants, spotting the naked fairy statue from the squash lady sitting on his windowsill. The little metal eyes are looking in his direction, and he raises one eyebrow. “What’re you staring at?” he grumbles, shoving his legs into a new pair of jeans and buttoning them up, looping his belt through the loose material so they’ll stay up on his hips.

                He throws on a shirt and another flannel, and then pops out of his room, ruffling Sam’s hair again as his brother says goodbye and heads out the front door. Dean watches him go, hiding his smile until he’s safely out of view.

                When the house is quiet again, Dean just stands there in the hall for second. He considers just leaving and heading back over to Castiel’s, but Cas was already falling asleep again by the time Dean left. It’s still early, for a Saturday morning.

                Behind himself, Dean hears the muffled sound of coughing, and he turns, eyeing his father’s closed bedroom door down the hall. Dean finds himself taking a half a step towards John’s room before he grits his teeth and tears his eyes away, not wanting to have to deal with his dad when he’s having a good day so far.

                Dean heads back into the kitchen, draining the last of his beer still sitting on the counter and then fishing around in the fridge for something to have for breakfast. He thinks longingly of the donuts Jesse and Anna are probably eating right now, and pulls out a half-full carton of eggs and some cheese. There’s a little bit of green mold on the corner of the cheese that Dean grimaces at, but he just uses a knife to slice it off and tries to trick himself into pretending it was never there in the first place as he grates some of the block up for an omelet.

                When he turns the knob on the stove to heat the burner, nothing happens, and Dean’s forehead crinkles. He jiggles the knob a couple times, listening for the usual click the machine makes when the burner is on, but there’s nothing. No sound. _Great_ , Dean thinks, yet another thing that’s broken in this house. He tries the other burners, but nothing happens with those either.

                Muttering to himself, he stares at the couple of raw eggs he already cracked into the frying pan, considering the consequences of just eating them as they are. He wrinkles his nose at the thought – he’s not quite _that_ hungry yet. Maybe Missouri would be willing to feed him later.

                “Dean,” a voice says from behind him, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin, flinching violently and whirling around. John fucking Winchester is standing right there, in the doorway to the kitchen, looking like absolute hell. Jesus, Dean didn’t even hear his door open down the hall. Has he really gotten that rusty the past few weeks?

                His father looks horrible, and Dean can only stand there, facing the man halfway, staring at him. It’s only been a couple weeks since Dean punched John the night Alastair showed up, but there are no bruises on his face that Dean can see. Just a two-week old beard and dark, dark circles under his eyes emblazoned by a pale sheen of sweat across his brow. He looks like a homeless man – _worse_ than a homeless man. God, what has he been _doing_ the past couple of weeks, just locked up in his room?

                Dean doesn’t know what to say, and for a minute or so, he says nothing. When the knot in his throat recedes a little, he finally gulps and pulls in a breath, saying the first thing he can think of. “The stove’s broken.”

                He immediately feels stupid for saying it, but really, what else is he supposed to say? What does he even _have_ to say to his father? There’s nothing. No words that could make their situation any less awkward.

                John’s eyes flicker down to the stove. “It’s not broken,” he says, before erupting into a fit of coughing. Dean straightens up, turning fully, almost going over to help before John pulls himself together, clearing his throat and rubbing at his chest. Dean eyes him warily as his father crosses the kitchen, wrapped in a bathrobe, looking years older than his actual age. “You have to twist the knob left, and then right,” John says, voice hoarse, reaching down and doing just that. Dean hears the telltale click of the burner turning on, and from somewhere deep within the coils, he watches as a faint red glow starts up. “It’s a dying machine, but not a broken one,” his father adds.

                “Oh,” Dean utters, chewing on his lip, “Um…thanks.” He glances at his dad, and John just grunts a little, coughing again and moving to the other side of the island counter, almost like he’s putting distance between the two of them on purpose. Dean glances back at the man, but John’s eyes are fixated on the bottle of whiskey – the one that’s been sitting in the middle of the island counter for weeks now.

                Dean eyes the whiskey, and swallows, his gaze flickering between the bottle and his father. “Do you want some breakfast?” he asks, more to fill the silence than anything.

                John’s focus shifts up to him for a brief second, and he grunts a little. “Sure son,” he replies, and Dean watches him for another second or two before turning his attention back towards the stove, cracking a couple more eggs into the frying pan and shoving them around with a fork to break the yolks. He listens to his father shifting behind him, coughing like he’s got the plague. Jesus, what’s wrong with him?

                Dean feels all of his muscles coiled, ready to react, ready to run, ready to do _something_. He’s waiting for the anger to rear it’s ugly head, for the shouting to start. He’s waiting for things to be thrown, the remaining chairs at the table to break, _anything_. Anything that’s in the realm of familiarity, of _normal_. John isn’t drunk right now, that much Dean can tell. But if history serves, the man soon will be, and Dean is just waiting for things to go south. He’s waiting for John to finally get mad about the fact that Dean punched him in the face, not once, but _twice_. And sure, maybe John’s punched Dean a thousand times more than that, but it doesn’t matter. That whole “respect your elders” thing and all that.

                Dean’s not sure what he’s feeling right now. Besides the anger and the mild fear blooming in his chest at just the mere sight of his dad, he also feels awkward, and confused, and a bit of longing as well. Because as much as he wishes he could hate the man standing behind him, he _can’t_. He loves his father, and he hasn’t seen the man in two weeks. Funny, that you can be living in the same house as somebody and still miss them, even if you don’t know why.

                Dean is expecting a lot of things to happen in this moment, expecting a lot of shit to rain down upon him. What he _doesn’t_ expect is to suddenly see John Winchester out of the corner of his eye stepping up to the sink. Dean’s eyes snap in his father’s direction as John twists the cap off the whiskey bottle from the counter.

                Then, without a word, John hesitates for a second or two, even eases the bottle towards his lips briefly, before his hand tightens around the bottle to the point where his knuckles bleed to white. And then, he’s tipping the bottle over, and pouring the whiskey down the drain.

                Dean’s eyes widen comically, and he stares at the amber stream of liquid as it splashes into the sink, running down the drain with a steady gurgle. John’s back is to Dean, and Dean wishes he could see the man’s face, because what the _fuck_ is going on? Dean just stares, his mouth hanging open slightly, the eggs beginning to burn in the pan, as the last of the whiskey is drained from the bottle. John holds it upside down over the sink until every last drop has fallen out, and then he sets the empty bottle on the counter, leaning over the sink and hanging his head with a sigh and a stifled cough.

                Dean stares at him for a long moment, but John doesn’t move or say a word. So Dean shifts a little, licking his lips. “Dad?” he calls quietly, the only sounds in the kitchen the eggs popping and sizzling.

                John doesn’t turn around, but he lifts his head a little, staring out the dirty window over the sink into the woods. It takes him a long time to say anything, and when he does, his voice is gruff and low, quiet enough that Dean has to take a half a step closer to the man just to hear him clearly.

                “You know…” John utters, shaking his head a little and pausing for a second, “For the life of me…I can’t remember where she is. I keep trying to remember, but…it’s been so long.”

                Dean swallows dryly. Without even having to ask, he knows his father is talking about Mary. He knows his father is talking about Mary’s grave. John hasn’t been to Mary Winchester’s grave since the funeral. The same went for Dean until a couple weeks ago when Cas went with him. He’s just as guilty.

                Dean licks his lips, glancing down at the eggs, which have gone dry and brittle in the pan, and then back up at his father’s back. “Dad?” he asks hesitantly, “Are you okay?”

                John doesn’t turn around, coughing a few times and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s just been eating at me for weeks,” he says, “I can’t remember.”

                Dean stares at him for another minute, and then swallows again, reaching down and turning off the stove, moving the ruined eggs off to the side to cool. “Do you...do you want me to take you?” he offers, and John is still for a second before looking back at his son. Dean isn’t sure how to interpret the look on John’s face, so he doesn’t even try. His head is already swimming with confusion, and a little spark of hope that he _really_ doesn’t want to cling to, for fear that it’s false.

                John doesn’t respond, but for some reason, Dean decides to take that as a yes. He’s sure that somewhere between here and the garage, John will definitely let him know if he _doesn’t_ want to go out to the cemetery, so what’s Dean have to lose?

                His father just watches him as Dean comes forward slowly, reaching out and wrapping his hand around the neck of the whiskey bottle above where John is still clutching it. At the slightest pull, his father lets it go, glancing down at it, and Dean picks it up, tossing it in the bin next to the counter that’s piled high with empty liquor and beer bottles, most of which have been sitting there for a couple weeks. Dean’s been bad about taking out the trash and recycling lately, but he’s not really thinking about that right now.

                He crosses the kitchen and opens the coat closet in the hallway, pulling out his dad’s jacket that John hasn’t worn in a while. When he steps back into the kitchen, John has moved away from the sink, and Dean holds the coat out to him.

                “Do you want to?” he asks, and John looks at him for a second before clearing his throat, taking the coat and shedding his robe. He’s still wearing sweats and a t-shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care, shrugging the jacket onto his shoulders and looking at his son with weary eyes.

                “Dean…” he says, “I’m sor-”

                “Where are the keys?” Dean asks, cutting him off, because _hell_ no, that’s not a can of worms they’re cracking open today. Dean feels a wave of thick nausea roll through his stomach briefly. Is his father actually trying to apologize to him? And apologize for what? For drinking? For breaking all their shit? For hitting them? What?

                There are so many things that this man has done that can’t be fixed with a simple apology, and yet, despite everything, Dean already forgave John a long time ago. He stopped being mad years ago. At least…for the most part. Yes, he gets pissed at the way John behaves sometimes, the way he can’t control himself, the way he won’t just grow the fuck up and deal with his grief like an adult. But…you can’t be mad at someone for displaying the symptoms of their disease. John is a _sick_ man. And maybe this is him getting better.

                Dean tries to ignore the mildly wounded expression on his father’s face when he doesn’t let the man finish his apology. Dean _really_ doesn’t want to hear it. Not now. Probably not ever. He just wants things to change. No discussion, or fuss. No awkward family bonding moments. He just wants…better.

                John nods towards the hallway. “Keys are in the den,” he says, and Dean eyes him for a second before swallowing and turning on a heel, walking to the living room and spotting the keys on the TV stand. It’s only when he and John are stepping out the front door that Dean realizes they’re _actually_ doing this. That this isn’t just a regular old Saturday morning in the Winchester family.

                This isn’t just any old family outing. This is _huge_. And goddamn it, as much as he’s trying to tamp it down, Dean can’t help the little bursting swells of hope burgeoning inside him. He can’t help but think _maybe_. Just _maybe._

His father climbs into the passenger seat without a word when they step into the garage, and Dean takes a split moment to just pull in a breath before he slides behind the wheel, starting her engine up with a roar.

                The drive is completely silent. Dean doesn’t even reach out to turn on any music for the whole hour long trip. He’s afraid of shattering whatever tentative bridge they’re building right now, afraid of doing something that will wake him up from this dream, snap him back to reality. He’s waiting for a fist to come flying at his face.

                But nothing happens. His father stares out the window, looking sickly, erupting into several coughing fits along the way. Dean glances over at him, wondering what’s wrong, almost laughing at the idea that his father could be really sick, could be terminal or something, because wouldn’t that be a fucking bitter and poetic ending to a Winchester legacy?

                By memory alone, Dean weaves his way through the blooming spring back roads of Vermont, blades of sunlight cutting through the trees, streaking over the sleek black Impala as it carries them beneath, going too fast for the tight curves. Dean makes it to Green Valley Cemetery a lot faster than he means to, and he pulls the car off to the side of the road in the same spot he parked when he and Cas came here, right in front of the rickety old sign.

                John starts coughing again as Dean climbs out of the car, and Dean rounds the front of the vehicle, opening the passenger side door for his father. John swings his legs out, and Dean reaches down, helping his father out of the car, holding onto him until John seems to be steadier on his feet, his coughs fading away again.

                Dean wants to ask what’s wrong, but he also doesn’t want to push his dad any more than his dad is pushing himself right now. So he bites his tongue and stays quiet, turning and leading the way across the fresh grass of the cemetery. He and his father walk side by side at a gentle pace, stepping around headstones, their shoulders bumping together, and for a few seconds, Dean feels kind of normal. He imagines himself and John walking on a baseball field, or through a park, or anywhere that’s not a graveyard. He imagines them doing something normal together like that, and he actually feels himself smiling a bit, because this is the first time in years that he and his father have spent this much time together, just the two of them.

                When they get to Mary Winchester’s grave, Dean expects his father to cry, or gasp, or hesitate even. _Something_ to indicate the amount of pain John has been in for most of Dean’s life since Mary died. But his father simply walks up to the grave, stoically, and stops a few feet away, staring down with a grim expression at the headstone.

                Dean stands there next to him, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans, and he waits.

                For an entire hour, the two of them just stand there in silence, staring down at Mary’s grave. The breeze is warm, and whispers through the headstones like a ghost, rattling the leaves on the trees and filling Dean with a calm that he’s only really been able to feel around Castiel before. Dean thought it might be sad, to come out here, especially with his father at his side. But instead, he feels kind of peaceful. Almost like a little piece of his life is falling into place, after too many years.

                He remembers funny little things while they stand there. Dean thought that he could keep his mind carefully blank, but being here with both his parents for the first time in so many years, he can't help but to reminisce a little. It hurts, but he can't help it. He remembers his earliest Christmas, when John got Mary that crappy turntable from the antique store, and for years after that, the house was filled every afternoon with crackling music. He remembers his father coming home from hunting with friends that Dean is sure John doesn't have anymore, and Mary cooking up whatever little creature John had shot that day, both of them so in tune with the "circle of life" and all that crap. He remembers Mary teaching Dean how to do laundry, standing there with a little smile on her face as Dean struggled to throw one article of clothing at a time into the washer that was taller than he was, before dumping too much soap into it and starting it up. He remembers the sounds of his mother's hairbrush working its way through the tangles in Mary's hair in the morning when she would first get up, and they would both be standing in the bathroom in the hallway, Dean brushing his teeth with bubblegum flavored toothpaste and his mother getting ready for work.

                Dean reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, unsure exactly what he's feeling right now. John doesn't move beside him, not for a while, and Dean can't turn it off. He can't turn off the steady faucet of memories in his head. And maybe that's okay. Maybe he doesn't  _need_ to turn it off. Because it's  _good_ to remember, and to cherish those memories. It's good to think about those you love, even if you've lost them, no matter if it hurts or not. Fuck, Dean doesn't really know what they're doing out here at all, but he'll be damned if he's going to say anything about it. 

                When an hour has passed, John finally shifts beside him, and when Dean glances up, John is looking over at him. The man gives Dean a tiny, stiff smile, and reaches over, patting Dean once on the shoulder, nodding.

                “Okay, son,” he says, in a quiet, gruff voice, and then turns, walking away from the grave and back towards the car.

                Dean stares after him for a moment, and then lowers his eyes back to Mary’s grave, swallowing, listening to the sound of his father's footsteps crunching away over soft grass and the old skeletons of leaves from autumn still working their way out of the soil. He reads over the inscription on his mother’s headstone, chewing on his lip, and then sighs.

                “You think he’s gonna be okay mom?” Dean asks, his voice so quiet that the breeze latches onto his words and practically carries them away. He doesn’t really expect an answer, but he has to ask the question anyway, for his own sake. For his father’s sake. For _Sammy’s_ sake.

                A few little flower petals come floating by on the grass at Dean’s feet, nudged along by the wind, and Dean watches as they bounce over his boots before drifting away. He grits his teeth, and exhales once through his nose, saying nothing more before lifting his head.

                As he turns around to follow his father back to the car, his eyes catch on a slight movement in the trees across the graveyard, and he freezes, head snapping in that direction. For a moment, he sees nothing, and then he feels his lungs seize up in his chest.

                A deer.

                There’s a deer standing in the trees, half-masked by the lush undergrowth. It looks like it just lifted its head from nibbling at the grass around its legs, but now it’s frozen in place, ears perked, tail twitching, staring right at Dean.

                Dean can do nothing but stare back for a minute or two, still as the dead, not even breathing. Just looking at the whitetail deer.

                It’s not like deer are all that uncommon around the forested areas of Vermont. This one’s big, powerful, and yet delicate, like an independent warrior with a soft, gentle heart. It stares at Dean for so long that Dean almost thinks it’s fake, thinks it’s a statue or something. And then, the deer takes a step towards him. Just one step, small, a twig snapping beneath its foot. And as Dean watches, the deer lowers its head and starts nibbling at the grass again, it’s ears twitching.

                Dean gulps, exhaling slowly, his chest burning with the need to breathe. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath in the first place. He sucks in a shaky gasp, running a hand through his hair, and he glances down at his mother’s grave again before turning on a heel and heading after his father’s retreating form across the graveyard.

 

*       *       *

 

                On Sunday night, Missouri decides out of the blue to have a big family dinner again. She says it’s to celebrate graduation in a couple days, and Cas doesn’t question it, just helps her cook all afternoon and set the kitchen table up with twice the chairs they usually have there.

                When there’s a knock on the front door, Anna is the one who answers it, and she throws her arms around Dean like she always does, ecstatic to see him. Cas hears Dean laugh from where he’s checking the ham in the oven, and he grins, turning and walking out into the front hallway to greet the green eyed boy.

                His eyes nearly pop out of his skull when the first person he sees is not Dean, but John Winchester, standing there with his hands tucked awkwardly in his pockets, looking incredibly large and out of place in Missouri’s tiny foyer. Cas stutters to a halt, staring at the man in shock, but before he can say anything, before he can demand to know why Dean’s father is here, Dean pops out of the living room where he was greeting Anna, and he comes forward, grinning widely at Cas.

                Without even a moment’s hesitation or pause, Dean leans in and presses their lips together, kissing Cas enthusiastically, bunching his hands around fistfuls of Castiel’s shirt and pulling their bodies flush together. It takes Cas a second or two, but then he can’t help but allow his eyes to slip closed, kissing Dean back for a while before pressing a hand to his chest and pushing him gently away.

                “Dean, what is your father doing here?” he whispers, keeping his voice low, feeling John Winchester’s gaze burning a hole in the two of them where they’re standing there basically making out right in front of the man.

                Before Dean can answer, Sam appears, with a sweet-looking blonde girl in tow. Jess, if Cas remember correctly.

                “Hey Cas!” Sam greets, pulling the girl forward by her hand, “I want you to meet Jessica.”

                Castiel’s gaze darts from Sam’s face to Jess’s, and he holds his hand out, giving her a half-smile. “Hello Jessica,” he greets, “It’s nice to meet you.”

                She gives him a toothy smile, shaking his hand politely. “Good to meet you too. I like your shirt.”

                Cas’s brow crinkles and he glances down, flushing red when he realizes he’s wearing the t-shirt that Dean picked out for him at Walmart as a joke. It’s an image of a lion wearing thick-framed glasses and a beanie.

                Castiel clears his throat and looks back up at Jess, giving her a little smile as he huffs a breath. “Thank you,” he says, and she nods, snorting. Sam rolls his eyes, grinning at Cas before dragging Jess away towards the living room where Anna and Jesse are playing a very competitive round of Scrabble.

                Castiel watches after them for a moment before looking back at Dean, glancing over his boyfriend’s shoulder at John still standing there like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Dean shakes his head slightly at Cas, leaning in. “I’ll explain in a minute,” he says, squeezing Castiel’s hand before stepping around him and ducking under the doorway into the kitchen.

                Cas hears Missouri greeting Dean warmly and hugging him, but he can’t move, just standing there staring at Dean’s father. The last time he saw John, John was beating the shit out of Dean. The memory doesn’t exactly encourage warm thoughts about the man. John notices after a moment that Castiel is staring at him and glances over, an unreadable expression on his face.

                Missouri comes out of the kitchen then, and John’s eyes flicker over to her. She approaches him confidently, and smiles a gentle smile as she holds out her hand.

                “I’m Missouri,” she introduces herself, “Your son has told me a lot about you, John Winchester.”

                John seems a little taken aback that Missouri already knows his name, but he clears his throat a little, reaching over and shaking her hand firmly. “Good to meet you,” he says, and Missouri nods once.

                “Now, would you like something to help you with that cough?” she asks, and Castiel almost laughs at the confused surprise on John’s face before Missouri turns and heads back into the kitchen, winking at Dean as she goes. John hesitates for a second, and then walks forward. As he passes, he pats Dean’s shoulder, and Dean grasps his arm in response, like a silent conversation.

                John walks between the two of them and ducks under the doorway into the kitchen, and Cas listens to Missouri start up a conversation in her breathy, bird-like voice. He looks over at Dean, his questions all in his eyes, and Dean glances at him before taking a quick peek in the kitchen.

                “Come on,” he says, reaching down and taking Cas’s hand, pulling him towards the back hallway. They end up in the tarot card bathroom at the end of the hall, with the lavender toilet and the sandalwood potpourri. Dean closes and locks the door and then turns to Cas with a sort of wild look in his eyes, like he’s still reeling from some huge epiphany or something.

                “He hasn’t had a drink in weeks Cas,” Dean says, the words practically exploding from his chest.

                Cas cocks his head to the side. “Your father?”

                Dean nods, huffing a little breath, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. “He’s been just locked in his room trying to keep himself away from me and Sammy while he goes through withdrawals,” Dean explains, sinking down and sitting on the toilet seat, running a hand through his hair, “Did you even _know_ that people get withdrawals from drinking? I didn’t.”

                Cas purses his lips. “No,” he admits, and then he backs up, leaning against the wall near the sink, “Dean, you’re sure he’s better?”

                Dean scoffs. “Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far,” he says, “I mean, he’s got a lot of work to do but…he stood at the sink yesterday and literally dumped out all of his liquor bottles. From all his little stashes around the house. And today he got to meet Jess, and he was _sober_ Cas, and Sammy was so fucking happy, and I just…”

                Cas watches as Dean shakes his head a little in disbelief. He doesn’t say anything, just waits while Dean works out his thoughts for a second.

                “He wants to come to my graduation on Tuesday,” Dean adds after a second, looking up at Cas, “I mean how crazy is that?”

                Castiel smiles, hesitating before pushing himself away from the wall and walking over to Dean. He kneels down in front of his boyfriend, taking his face in his hands and staring at him for a moment before leaning in and kissing him.

                Dean’s eyebrows press together briefly as Cas kisses him, and after a few seconds, he pulls away, studying Cas’s face. “Why don’t you seem happy?” he asks.

                Cas huffs a little breath, shaking his head. “It’s not that I’m not happy Dean,” he says, giving him a small smile, “I _am_. But I’m also going to play it safe. I’m going to be that devil on your shoulder so you don’t have to be.”

                Dean stares at him for a second, confused, before his face smoothes out in understanding. “You’re my pessimistic side,” he surmises, and Castiel snorts, nodding.

                “If you want to call it that,” he says, chewing his lip, “I’m thrilled that your father has stopped drinking. But I’m going to remain open to the possibility that he might start again, because that sort of thing happens all the time.”

                Dean’s forehead creases a little, and his throat ripples as he swallows. “Should I be worried?” he asks, deflating a little, and Castiel shakes his head immediately.

                “No, please don’t be,” he says, “Regardless of what people may say, hope is a _good_ thing.” Cas reaches out and places his hand on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. “I want you to have hope, alright? You deserve to have it. I’ll bear the weight of doubt for you. And in all likelihood, I’ll end up the one that’s proven wrong, and your father will recover from this sickness.”

                Dean sits there for a moment, letting that sink in, and then he swallows again, reaching up and wrapping his hand around Castiel’s on his chest. He looks down for a second, and then back up at Cas’s face, his eyes softening.

                Dean leans in, kissing Castiel once, slowly, their lips dragging together like velvet. “Thanks Cas,” he says softly, resting their foreheads together and squeezing Castiel’s hand, “But he’s gonna be okay. He’s _really_ gonna be okay this time. I think when I hit him a couple weeks ago, he had like...a _wake-up_ call or something. I can’t explain it but…it’s just different now. Everything’s different.”

                Cas smiles softly, kneeling there for another moment and then pushing himself to his feet, pulling Dean up with him. He stares at his boyfriend for a moment, and the snorts a little. “I honestly have no idea what this town is doing to us,” he says suddenly, and Dean stares for a second before barking a laugh.

                “I’ve been saying the same thing to myself for the past nineteen years,” he replies, and Castiel huffs a little breath, shaking his head. He leads the way out of the bathroom, and together they head down the hall to the kitchen again, where Missouri is serving John a tall, steaming cup of some sort of herbal tea that will undoubtedly cure whatever physical aches and illness Dean’s father may have from his alcohol withdrawals.

                John glances up at them as they enter the kitchen, his eyes trailing down to where they’re hand are intertwined between them. For a moment, Castiel is worried that John will be like his own parents, that he’ll want to disown Dean in some way for loving a boy. But John just looks at their hands for a moment, and then looks back up at Dean, giving Dean a look that isn’t quite a smile so much as a smoothing of his features before he takes a sip of the tea Missouri gave him.

                Dean and Cas crowd into the limited space in the kitchen, helping Missouri finish up preparing dinner. It doesn’t take long with all three of them working together while Missouri fills the silence with chatter about school, and graduation, and how wonderful Dean and Cas are, and what a great student Sam is. John seems genuinely surprised at how much Missouri knows about his sons, and even more surprised at some of the things he almost seems to be _learning_ about his sons from her, things he didn’t already know.

                When they all finally sit down to dinner, Sam sits next to his father, and seems to be attempting to have conversations with him periodically, like he’s slowly stacking brick upon brick, building their relationship up again from a pile of rubble. Conversation around the table is rich and excited, and Castiel can’t help the smile that curls his lips. He’s never felt more _at home_ than in this moment, and he doesn’t even care that his parents aren’t here anymore. He doesn’t even care that he doesn’t have their acceptance. This is the first moment he actually, _truly_ doesn’t care. And it feels phenomenal, like shedding a dead layer of skin that was only weighing him down.

                After the eight of them scrape clean practically every plate on the table, Dean serves dessert, which seems to surprise John for some reason. Once they all finish with their slices of pecan pie that Dean specifically requested, they all clear their own dishes, setting them in the sink to be washed. Missouri disappears into the back hallway for a moment to change out of her shawl, a smear of something on the edge of it from cooking. Anna drags Dean practically kicking and screaming out into the living room to help her think of good words to win the Scrabble match, despite his protests that he’ll _never_ be able to outsmart Sam at a game like this.

                As Castiel grabs a sponge and starts scrubbing away at the dishes in the sink, the lavender scented soap filling the small room, he hears a shift behind himself and a quiet cough. When he glances back, John Winchester is still there, standing awkwardly on the other side of the island counter, eyeing the clusters of herbs hanging from the ceiling of the kitchen. When he notices Castiel looking at him, he shifts his weight and raises his tea cup before taking a small drink.

                Cas doesn’t say anything, doesn’t really know _what_ to say, just nods once, stiffly, and turns back to the dishes, scrubbing them all meticulously clean and rinsing them before stacking them in the drying rack on the opposite counter.

                He’s never actually seen Dean’s father sober before, and he’s surprised at the similarity to when he’s drunk. John is still the same man that Castiel has met before, still rough around the edges, kind of awkward and gruff, and massively intimidating to the average person. But Cas is also curious to know what goes on in this man’s head besides the desire to drain a bottle of whiskey. He knows he’s not being very fair, with his negative opinion of the man, but honestly, it’s hard to forgive the guy when Castiel has been there this whole time, and seen the damage the man’s fists and boots have done to Dean’s body in the past.

                He stares down at the sponge in his hand, running it in circles over the surface of one of the plates in the sink, the water streaming gently over it. John shifts behind him again, and then Castiel hears heavy footsteps coming around the counter before Dean’s father appears in Cas’s peripheral vision, leaning back against the counter not three feet away. Castiel glances up at him again, but John is looking across the room, his brow furrowed, face a little sickly up close. Must be from the alcohol withdrawals.

                “You don’t like me very much, do you?” John says suddenly, and Castiel just stares at him for a long moment before going back to scrubbing at the dishes. He rinses the soap off another plate and sets it in the drying rack before he says anything.

                “No,” he agrees simply.

                John glances over at him, quiet for a second before huffing a little amused breath. “Well at least you’re honest.”

                Cas looks at him, and continues to scrub. He doesn’t really have much to say to this man, so he says nothing at all. But to his surprise, John breaks the silence again.

                “I know we don’t know each other that well, Castiel,” Dean’s father says, pausing for a moment, “But…I need to ask you something.”

                Cas chews on his lip for a second. “Alright,” he says, picking up a fork and running the sponge over the sticky prongs.

                John takes another sip of his tea, and then stares off across the kitchen. “My son…Dean. You know him well,” he says, pausing before adding in a quieter voice, “You know him better than I do.”

                Cas swallows, glancing up at Dean’s father. “Yes,” he agrees, and John looks over at him. This time, Cas doesn’t look away, because the man actually seems human right now, for the first time since Castiel met him. The look in his eyes is so raw and human.

                “Can you tell me…” John asks, hesitating again, “Is he…alright? I know that’s not a very specific question, but…he said some things, about himself and about Sam. That they’ve…been through things that I don’t know about. And it’s been bugging me for a while now.”

                Castiel feels a little knot form in his chest as he thinks about all that Dean has gone through in just the time that Cas has known him. Disregarding the things that John _himself_ has put Dean through, there’s _everything_ else. All the pain, all the sadness, all the growth.

                Cas swallows, looking back down at the dishes and staring at the water running over his hands for a moment before he begins to scrub again. “I’m only going to tell you this for Dean’s sake, not my own,” he says after a minute, “Because this has nothing to do with me.”

                Beside him, John shifts. “Okay,” he says, and Cas glances halfway in his direction before sighing and continuing.

                “Dean loves you,” he says, “No matter what’s happened between you, he loves you, and he wants to build a relationship with you. He wants you to get better.”

                John is quiet for a moment, and then shifts again, beginning to raise his tea to his mouth, and then pausing and lowering it again. When Cas glances at him, John looks a little raw, and also a little confused.

                Castiel stops cleaning the dishes for a moment, waiting until John locks eyes with him again.

                “What I’m saying is…those questions you just asked me? You should ask them to Dean,” Cas explains, “And you should ask them to Sam. You need to _talk_ to your sons.”

                John stares at him for a few seconds, looking a little lost. It’s the sort of look that Cas sees on Dean’s face a lot, and he suddenly realizes where Dean got it from. But before either of them can say anything more, Missouri returns to the kitchen with a new shawl on, and she clucks her tongue at Castiel.

                “Why don’t you go spend some time with your friends, sugar?” she says, walking over and taking the sponge from him, patting the back of his hand, “I’ll finish these.”

                Castiel gives her a small smile, glancing at Dean’s father once more before swallowing and slipping out of the kitchen. It’s funny, but being around John Winchester doesn’t feel like suffocating under the weight of intense scrutiny and fear anymore. Castiel is surprised at the drastic change, even in such a short amount of time. Maybe Dean is right – maybe John Winchester truly has gotten better. Maybe things are better now. Castiel can only hope.

                The evening is wasted away with a few competitive rounds of Scrabble in Missouri’s living room, and when it gets late, John comes into the room and says it’s time for them to leave. Sam and Jess push themselves to their feet, and Dean glances up at his dad.

                “I’m gonna stay with Cas tonight,” he says, before pausing and adding, “If that’s okay.”

                John’s eyes flicker to Castiel, and then back to Dean. He nods once. “Alright son,” he says, and then hesitates for a moment before turning towards the front door. Missouri farewells them, and then Castiel hears the telltale roar of the Impala coming to life on the street outside.

                As soon as the car pulls away, Missouri comes in and packs up the Scrabble game, sending Jesse and Anna off to bed with one long, warm hug each. Dean and Cas push themselves up from where they’re laying on their stomachs on the carpet, and Dean immediately reaches over and laces his fingers with Castiel’s. Missouri smiles and gives them both a hug at the same time, her short arms not even reaching all the way around the two of them.

                Then, she sends them on their way, telling them to behave and be safe. Dean snorts, while Castiel blushes, and together the two of them head out the front door. Instead of going over to Castiel’s house immediately though, Dean pulls Cas across the street and into the woods. He says that he’s feeling a little restless, and it’s not like they have school tomorrow, so whatever. Castiel huffs a little laugh and just follows along as Dean finds them a nice patch of soft grass to lay on deep within the trees.

                They sink down together, laying side by side, their shoulders pressed together and their heads touching, and they stare up at the stars through the treetops. It reminds Cas of the night he lost his virginity to Dean in that hayloft, and he smiles. Neither of them says anything, and they don’t have to. Between them, Castiel seeks out Dean’s hand, and they twine their fingers again, laying there together in the dark.

                At some point, they must fall asleep, because the next thing Castiel knows, he’s waking up, and Dean’ face is tucked in his neck, arm flung over Castiel’s chest, and he’s snoring softly there. Cas smiles tiredly, reaching up and stroking his fingers through Dean’s soft hair. And in that moment, half asleep and laying in the middle of the forest in Vermont, Castiel thinks to himself that there’s nowhere in the world he would rather be, than right here in this very moment.

 

*       *       *

 

                _Number 1: Never lose touch with reality._

Dean is sitting in his bedroom the next afternoon, alone, wracking his brain for hopes and dreams that he’s never let himself acknowledge until this very moment.

                Castiel’s notebook is open on his lap. When Dean pulled it out from under his mattress today and flipped it open, he discovered that there’s only one blank page left. That’s it. One page, out of this _entire_ notebook. On one hand, Dean can’t fucking believe he actually had enough shit in his head to fill this entire notebook, and on the other hand…now what is he supposed to do with it? His plan all along was to give it to Cas, but is he really going to do that?

                _Focus_. He shakes his head a little, closing his eyes for a second and then opening them again, looking down at the last page of the notebook. He’s only written that one thing so far – _Number 1: Never lose touch with reality_.

                The last page of this notebook, he decided, needs to be something special. He’s not sure how special _this_ is, but he thinks it’s something Castiel might appreciate, should be ever read it. Dean is creating a list. A list of twenty things. That’s all he has to come up with, he tells himself. Twenty things he hopes for, dreams for, _wants_ for his life. Wants for himself, and for Cas, and for Sam. Twenty selfish little wishes.

                 And number 1 is all he’s come up with so far.

                He chews on the end of his pen, staring down at the paper. Is it so dangerous to hope? Castiel told him that hope is a good thing, something to be celebrated, and cherished, not feared. So why is Dean having such a hard time hoping now? Why is it so hard for him to just, for one moment, think about the things he wants for his life? As far as he’s concerned, at this point, he has everything he _needs_.

                Sammy is happy, and he has Jess to keep him happy.

                John Winchester is sober, and planning to go to an AA meeting, which made Dean _dizzy_ when he found out about it.

                Dean has Castiel. And really, there’s nothing better than that.

                A certain psychopathic monster is dead (although Dean doesn’t let himself think about him. He can’t. He refuses.)

                And most of all, both Dean _and_ Cas are getting better. They’re both getting so much _better_. Dean never thought he would see the day. He never thought it was even _possible_ , and yet, here they are. Sure, they’re both still a little twisted, both still a little fucked in the head, but so what? It’s not like miracles happen overnight, and really? It _will_ take a goddamn miracle to heal the two of them. But at least they’re still alive. At least they’re still together, all their little shattered bits and pieces held in place with duct tape and glue.

                God, at least they’re still _human_.

                And isn’t that more than Dean could ever hope for, when he looks back at how they started out?

                He licks his lips, sighing and touching the tip of his pen to the paper. He decides the best way to write this list is to pretend for a little while that he’s Castiel. Cas sees the world so much differently than Dean, but somehow entirely the same all at once. He sees shining little beacons of hope where Dean sees dead ends and empty tunnels. But Dean is learning, and so he forces himself to think like his beautiful, innocent, twisted boyfriend would.

                And before he knows it, his pen is moving across the paper. Dean pours it all out, every little hope, dragging them from somewhere deep down buried in his psyche where not even his dreams can dare to reach. And by the time he’s halfway finished with the list, it actually kind of scares him to realize how much he still wants. It feels selfish, and impossible, but right now, he tries to ignore that, and he keeps writing.

                He writes about his hopes for Sammy, and for John. He writes about his hopes for Anna, and Jesse, and Missouri, and their friends. He writes about his hopes for Cas, and for himself, and for their future together. And by the time he has twenty things written down, he’s irrationally exhausted, and he wonders idly if he just mind-fucked _himself_ like the idiot that he is.

                Snorting, he looks down at his blocky handwriting on the page, not even reading over what he’s written before he closes Castiel’s composition notebook. The whole thing is bent up and wrinkled at the spine like it’s been handled too much – and it has. The book looks like the inside of Dean’s mind. It _is_ the inside of Dean’s mind, and as he stares down at the cover, he realizes he doesn’t have to be nervous or afraid of giving it to Castiel like he’s planned to from the very beginning.

                Castiel has seen Dean, inside and out, in the most _intimate_ of ways. He’s seen Dean’s body, his mind, his soul, his secrets. And he hasn’t run away. Cas accepted every little flaw, every fucking horrible thing that Dean has done, and made them all into something beautiful. Dean has no idea why he was ever afraid to share this notebook with Cas.

                Swallowing a little, he glances around, looking for a ribbon of some sort to wrap the notebook up. It’s a gift, so he should wrap it or something, he thinks. But of course, being himself, he doesn’t have any ribbons laying around. The closest he has is a ratty old shoelace that he unlaces from his tennis shoe in the corner.

                He wraps the notebook in the shoelace, tying the ends of the string into the best bow he can. It looks awful, and stupid, but he doesn’t care. If anything, Castiel will find it _poetic_ or something. Huffing a little breath, Dean fishes in his drawer for a Sharpie, and on the cover of the composition notebook, in big bold letters, he writes **_To Cas_. **


	42. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I completely forgot to link this really awesome artwork done for this story a little while ago! It's by no-the-adamwest-batman on Tumblr. It's so beautiful, thank you!! Check it out :) [Art](http://no-the-adamwest-batman.tumblr.com/post/130348280419/fan-art-for-coldinthestudio-fic-hautleys-bend)

**_MAY_ **

The morning of graduation day is warm, and bright, and a strange contrast to the cold, autumn-colored weather Castiel remembers from the very first day he moved to Rail Pass. So much has changed in less than a year. So much has gotten worse, and better all at once. And it’s weird, but Cas wouldn’t have it any other way.

                Charlie insisted on picking out Castiel’s outfit for the ceremony this morning before speeding off to meet up with Dorothy, so when Cas opens his front door to find Dean standing on his porch waiting to pick him up, he’s clad in his nicest button down and slacks, a blue tie around his neck that Dean’s gaze hungrily rakes over before the green eyed boy reaches out, wrapping his hand around the garment and dragging Castiel forward for an enthusiastic kiss.

                And alright…if Charlie picking out Castiel’s clothing for special events earns Cas kisses like _these_ , then he’ll gladly play dress up with her.

                The horn to the Impala parked on the street behind Dean beeps twice, as a signal to hurry up and quit making out or they’re going to be late, and when Castiel huffs a laugh and peers over Dean’s shoulder, he sees Dean’s father and Sam sitting in the car waiting for them. Missouri left early with Anna and Jesse, who were understandably ecstatic that they got to skip school for the day to come to the ceremony. Castiel still questions the logic behind holding senior graduation on a _Tuesday_ , but he’s not about to complain when he’s going to have everyone he loves there with him.

                And the best part? Naomi and Bartholomew Novak haven’t crossed Castiel’s mind _once_ this morning. Even if today is the day that he is _officially_ kicked out of his house for good, even if today is the day he’s officially homeless, thoughts of his parents aren’t tainting the excitement and the anticipation of today. And for that, Castiel is thankful. Even if this means he’ll be couch surfing for the next _however_ many months, he’s thankful.

                He and Dean walk hand in hand to the Impala and slide into the back seat together. Cas is surprised at how cleaned up John Winchester looks. He’s shaved his scruffy beard, and has donned his best clothing, and he looks _good_ , for the first time ever since Castiel met the man. John’s eyes meet Castiel’s briefly in the rearview mirror, and the man nods once, which Castiel returns respectfully before buckling himself in.

                The school is positively a _zoo_ when they arrive, panicked mothers and excited seniors, frustrated teachers trying to organize the students into alphabetical order so their names are called out right when the diplomas are handed out. Dean and Castiel part ways with John and Sam when they get there, and Dean’s family goes off to join the other families in the audience, all sitting on the bleachers of the football field where the ceremony has been set up.

                Cas allows Dean to drag him through the crowd of people milling around. They never really had a rehearsal or anything for this, so nobody has any idea what they’re doing. But Cas just clutches his plastic-wrapped graduation gown in one arm and trusts Dean to lead him wherever they need to go.

                When they enter the school’s side door into the Dungeon hallway, though, Castiel begins to question whether he should trust Dean at all with getting them to the ceremony in time.

                “Um, Dean? I don’t think this is where we’re supposed to be,” Castiel says, stumbling after his boyfriend, the outside door sinking closed and effectively muffling all the noise from the crowd outside.

                Dean glances back at him and gives Cas a mischievous grin, nodding his head towards the end of the hallway. Cas’s forehead crinkles, and he allows Dean to pull him along, right into the empty Dungeon bathroom, where Dean immediately backs him up against the wall and crowds into his personal space.

                “Oh I think this is _exactly_ where we’re supposed to be,” he says, chuckling darkly and leaning in to press his lips to Castiel’s. Cas’s little noise of complaint is muffled by Dean’s lips, and it only takes a couple seconds for him to trail off into a groan, lips curling into a smile where they’re pressed to Dean’s. Dropping his plastic wrapped graduation gown, he winds his arms around Dean’s neck, arching up into the kiss and plunging his tongue into Dean’s mouth without warning, dragging a moan and a chuckle out of Dean.

                When they break away, it’s only so that Castiel can spin them around, slamming Dean back against the wall instead and pinning him there. “You’re a _very_ bad influence, Dean Winchester,” Castiel scolds, and Dean snickers.

                “Old habits die hard, I guess,” he replies, grinning and leaning forward, nipping lightly at the delicate skin of Castiel’s throat. Cas’s eyes flutter, and he huffs a little breath.

                “You know we’re _already_ late for graduation,” he points out, trying not to get distracted by the fact that Dean’s suit fits him just right, hugging his thighs and accentuating his chest in a way that makes Cas just want to _tear it off_ of him. “Seriously, we’re going to get in trouble.”

                Dean snorts, trailing kisses up Castiel’s pulsating carotid before nipping at his jaw and pulling back to fix Castiel with a look. “Dude, it’s graduation day,” he says, “You’re _still_ worried about getting in trouble?”

                Cas pauses, pursing his lips and staring at Dean for a moment. Then, with a little hum, he shrugs. “Well, I suppose not,” he says, “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t go.”

                Dean chuckles, his eyes drifting over Castiel’s shoulder. His gaze locks on something behind Cas, and he perks up suddenly, his forehead crinkling. “Huh,” he huffs, and Castiel steps back as Dean walks forward right past him.

                “What?”

                Dean walks over to the wall opposite the urinals and runs the flat of his palm over a patch of drywall that’s a slightly different shade of white than the rest. It takes Castiel a second of staring to realize that the patch of wall is where the hole used to be, the one that Dean punched into the wall the first time he and Castiel found themselves alone together in here. Cas’s lips part on a little surprised exhale. Maintenance must have finally gotten someone in here to patch it up.

                “Wow, they fixed it,” he utters, and Dean glances back at him, frowning a little before looking down at his long-healed knuckles.

                He’s quiet for a second, the muffled sounds of the crowd outside filtering in through the tiny window at the edge of the ceiling near the sinks. “It doesn’t seem right, does it?” Dean murmurs thoughtfully, running a thumb over his knuckles and then glancing at the patched up spot of wall again.

                Cas cocks his head to the side, studying him. “What do you mean?” he asks.

                Dean glances up at him for a moment, and then hesitates before humming a bit, giving a little shrug and stepping back. Castiel’s eyebrows widen when Dean very suddenly swings his fist, his knuckles connecting with the drywall with a sickening _crack_ , and Dean’s whole hand disappears into the wall right up to his wrist. Just like the first time.

                Dean winces and lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan of pain, extracting his hand from the wall again and cradling it to his chest as he studies his work. Then, with a little hum, he turns, looking at Cas with raised eyebrows and a little smile. “There,” he says, “Much better.”

                Cas’s mouth drops open in shock. “Holy shit, Dean!” he exclaims in a harsh whisper, laughing as he walks forward and pulls Dean’s hand away from his chest to examine the damage. There are a few minor scrapes on Dean’s knuckles, but nothing that’s bleeding too much, and Cas runs his thumb gently over the reddened skin, shaking his head and looking up at his boyfriend.

                “You’re an idiot,” he scolds, and Dean grins widely at him, nodding his head towards the hole in the wall.

                “You have to admit, it looks better this way,” he says, and Cas glances at the wall too, before rolling his eyes and chuckling. He won’t admit it, but he has to agree. It’s like a little twisted homage to their little twisted relationship.

                “What am I going to do with you?” he mutters, and Dean snickers, backing him up against the wall again and kissing him. They stand there kissing next to the hole in the wall for several long minutes, getting lost in the feeling of their mouth dragging together, their bodies pressed flush and warm from chest to thigh, _too many clothes_ in the way.

                It’s only when the muffled sound of the marching band starts up outside that they break apart suddenly, both of them staring at each other with wide eyes.

                “Shit!” Dean exclaims, and Castiel gives him a shove towards the door.

                “It’s starting!” he says, “Quick, get into your gown!”

                Dean swears again, and they both rush to scoop up their graduation gowns from the floor, tearing open the plastic wrap around them and stepping into the too-large, too-hot blue robes. Cas wonders what the point of dressing nice today is when they’re wearing these ugly curtains over their outfits anyway. It all seems a bit superfluous.

                Cas shoves his strange, square cap onto his head, and then helps Dean secure his into place too. For a second, Cas just has to stop and stare, because it’s fucking _awesome_ that he and Dean are here right now together, getting ready to graduate high school. Getting ready to grow up.

                He doesn’t have long to think about it though before Dean is grabbing his hand, pulling him along out the door of the bathroom and running with him down the hallway of the Dungeon together. When they get outside, there’s a procession of gown-wearing seniors walking in a line towards the football field. The marching band is blaring loud, heading the whole pack like some kind of parade.

                When they stop outside the doors to the Dungeon, Dean and Castiel take a moment to lean in and give each other a brief kiss, despite the curious eyes of the other students.

                “See you after?” Dean says, grinning wildly, and Castiel snorts.

                “Of course,” he replies, and Dean winks, taking off towards the end of the line to stand with the other students whose last names end in W. Cas watches him leave for a moment, and then takes off in the opposite direction, managing to find his place in his own N name group just as the line of students starts pouring onto the football field.

                The crowd of families and faculty is already cheering as the seniors walk onto the freshly mowed grass, filing into folding chairs in neat little rows set up in front of a podium and clusters of multicolored balloons. Castiel nearly trips over the end of his robe as he walks, searching the crowd for Missouri, Anna, and Jesse.

                He only spots them after he’s taken his seat, and is surprised to see that they’re sitting with John and Sam in the audience. The five of them must have found each other somewhere in the crowd. When Anna see that Cas is looking, she jumps up and waves enthusiastically, and Castiel huffs a laugh, waving back.

                There are several long speeches that come before the handing out of the diplomas. Castiel looks around the crowd of seniors while Principal Roman drones on about the future from the podium at the front, and how much he’s grown to care about all the students in the crowd before him whose names he probably doesn’t even know. He can see people rolling their eyes around him and he chuckles, spotting Gabriel a couple rows back hunched over, blowing into a little plastic tube and slowly filling what looks like a beach ball with air. Castiel stifles a laugh when he sees that, and looks further, trying to see Dean somewhere in the back near the W students.

                He spots Crowley several seats down from Gabe, and finally manages to locate Dean where he’s sitting two rows from the back, looking at Principal Roman with a somewhat annoyed expression on his face. Castiel snorts a little laugh, turning back around to pay attention to their _loving_ principal continue his speech about the opportunities that await in the near future for his flock of seniors before him.

                At one point towards the end of the speech, Principal Roman pays condolences to the recent and tragic loss of one of their own students. Castiel grits his teeth and bites back the urge to growl when Roman says Alastair’s name. He has everyone bow their heads for a moment of silence in memory of their deceased classmate. Cas doesn’t bow his head, simply grits his teeth and waits for the moment to pass. When he glances back, Dean isn’t participating in the prayer either, but rather staring straight forward with a hard look in his eyes. Cas is surprised to see that Crowley isn’t participating either, and when Cas looks back at him, Crowley glances up and spots him staring, and they share a weird glance before the moment of silence ends and Principal Roman wraps up his speech with an unenthusiastic applause.

                The class valedictorian is next, and then Pamela gives a speech of her own. People cheer the loudest for Pam’s speech, which has the families in the audience roaring with laughter, to Castiel’s amusement.

                When the time comes to finally hand out diplomas, it’s a slow and somewhat boring process. Castiel cheers loudly for all of his friends as they accept their diplomas, and blushes in surprise when a great many people cheer for _him_ when he receives his own. Cara is one of a few faculty members handing the diplomas out, and she gives Castiel a wink as she hands him his.

                When Dean accepts his diploma, Castiel cheers the loudest out of everybody. He doesn’t care that he might be making an idiot out of himself in front of everyone. He jumps up and cheers and Dean blushes so hard Castiel can see it from here. Cas doesn’t care – he’s so _proud_ of Dean. So proud of everything that Dean has accomplished, everything that they’ve _both_ accomplished. And maybe things are still kind of fucked up, and maybe not every problem in their lives is going to be resolved overnight. But it doesn’t _matter_ , because this? Right here? _This_ matters. This accomplishment matters. And for once in his life, Castiel feels so much fucking _pride_ , he’d probably be persecuted by all the little old men and women who used to attend those churches his parents dragged him to as a child, his sinful homosexuality aside.

                The ceremony ends shortly after a few concluding words, and the entire senior class erupts into cheers, taking off their hats and throwing them into the air. Gabriel launches the beach ball he was blowing up into the air, and everyone starts laughing and hitting it around, much to Principal Roman’s dismay.

                For a while after the ceremony, people loiter and chat and congratulate each other. For the next hour, everything is just a sea of faces and one hug after another. Pamela, and Charlie, and Dorothy, and Jo, and Gabe, and Bobby, and Mr. Wyatt, and Cara, and even _Victor_ all come up and either hug Castiel or shake his hand. By the time Cas finally shoves his way out of the happy crowd and spots Dean, he’s practically drowning in twenty different perfumes that rubbed off on him, and his hair is a wild mess. Jesus, it’s like a fucking paparazzi.

                Cas spots Dean over near the edge of the football field, and to his mild surprise, he sees that Dean is leaning down to hug the squash lady, grinning and chatting with her. The old woman must have come to watch Dean graduate, which makes Castiel smile.

                He gives Dean and the old woman a few minutes, and then the squash lady hugs Dean again before turning and leaving. Cas wonders how she got here, wonders if she even drives. He’s never seen her leave her house before.

                With a little smile, he crosses the football field to where Dean is standing, and Dean glances over at him, grinning widely and laughing. “You look like you got caught in a dryer,” he says, reaching up and smoothing down Castiel’s wild mess of hair. Cas rolls his eyes.

                “More like every single person I’ve ever met in my life decided to hug me today,” he grumbles, gripping his diploma safely in one hand.

                They head towards the parking lot together and find Missouri, Jesse, and Anna standing with John and Sam near the Impala, waiting for them. Castiel receives several _more_ hugs from them, and John squeezes Dean’s shoulder, offering to hold onto his diploma so it doesn’t get ruined. Dean smiles and hands the paper to his father, while Missouri simply takes Castiel’s from him without question, insisting on holding onto it for him.

                She has Dean and Castiel both shed their graduation gowns, and she wraps them up, carrying them with her so they “don’t have to walk around looking like nuns” according to her.

                And just like that…graduation is over. Missouri and the kids pile into her station wagon a few cars away, and wave as they drive off, and Dean ducks into the Impala for a moment, pulling out his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and closing the door. When Cas looks at him questioningly, Dean says, “I brought some food.”

                Castiel raises an eyebrow at him and snorts as Sam comes up, grinning at his big brother. “You two gonna hang out for a little bit?” he asks, and Dean looks down at him.

                “Yeah,” he replies, bumping his fist with Sam’s, “Call if you need anything?”

                Sam salutes him, giving Cas a dorky smile, and then climbs into the passenger seat of the Impala, John already starting up the engine. Dean and Castiel stand there and watch as they drive off, and then Castiel looks over at Dean, squinting at him in the bright sun and smiling softly, reaching over and taking his hand.

                “Well, if we’re going to have a picnic, then I know a good place,” he says, and Dean cocks his head, eyeing him for a moment and then shrugging.

                “By all means,” he grins, gesturing for Cas to lead the way. Cas smiles, leaning in and planting a brief kiss on Dean’s lips before pulling him along towards the forest.

 

*       *       *

 

                There’s something hauntingly familiar now about the way the gentle breeze nudges at the swings at Hautley’s Bend, the way the chains creak and groan and fill the silence of the park with ghost-like wails. Dean and Castiel enjoy a quiet lunch away from all the rowdiness of the celebration that’s moved down to Main Street, laying on their stomachs on the fresh grass, the sun high and bright in the mid-morning sky.

                There’s nobody around, which doesn’t really surprise Castiel, although it pleases him. Everyone is already in town, or at work since it’s still a Tuesday. Nothing but the peaceful silence of the park and the forest surrounds them, and Cas gives Dean a tiny smile, chewing the last bite of the prepackaged sandwiches Dean bought for them.

                Dean’s brow furrows as he licks a bit of mayonnaise off his thumb and stuffs his sandwich wrapper back into his backpack, his suit jacket off and draped over his bag, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, revealing his freckled skin beneath.

                “Why’d you bring me to Hautley’s Bend, of all places?” he asks, looking at Castiel as Cas crumples up his own trash.

                Cas glances at him and hums, eyes darting across to the playground, the chipped paint of the merry-go-round creating slices of shadow in the angle of the sun. He shrugs a little. “I figured I’d bring you back to where it all began,” he says simply, “It seemed appropriate.”

                Dean stares at him for a second and then chuckles. “You’re such a sap,” he snorts, even as he leans in to plant a brief kiss on Castiel’s lips.

                Cas rolls his eyes and huffs a little laugh. “Shut up,” he shoots back, and Dean grins, turning his head and looking off into the trees. Cas stares at his profile for a moment, the way the sun dances like water off the green in Dean’s eyes, highlights his hair like burning gold. It still amazes Castiel, even now, that this radiant boy in front of him is _his_.

                Dean sucks his lower lip into his mouth like he’s considering something, and then he pulls in a little breath.

                “So listen, I’ve been doing some thinking,” he says, turning his eyes back onto Castiel’s face. Cas blinks out of his momentary daze.

                “About?” he asks, resting his chin in his palm and picking at the grass, both of them still laying on their stomachs.

                Dean stares at him for a moment, hesitating, and then a tiny smile curls his lips. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small stack of wrinkled papers. Castiel cocks his head, eyeing them, but before he can ask, Dean says, “I’ve been looking at apartments online, and I found a few that are actually pretty cheap.”

                Castiel’s eyes widen and he grins. “Dean, that’s great! You’re moving out of your house?” he asks, reaching out and taking the papers from Dean’s hand, flipping through a few of them and eyeing the photos of different apartment interiors, “Are these all in town somewhere?”

                Dean snorts, clearing his throat, and when Cas glances up at him, Dean is blushing a little. “I’ve been looking for jobs too,” he goes on, and Castiel’s eyebrows raise in surprise, “There are some garages hiring for beginner mechanic positions…in Johnson.”

                Castiel’s forehead creases for a moment in confusion, and he stares at Dean. “Johnson?” he repeats, “Why are you looking for apartments here if you’re getting a job in Johnson?”

                Dean rolls his eyes, huffing a little breath. “Cas…the apartments are in Johnson too,” he clarifies. Castiel just lays there staring at him in confusion, until Dean lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m asking you to move in with me, you dingus.”

                Castiel’s heart skips a beat in surprise, and his eyes widen. Dean just stares at him for a moment, trying to measure his reaction, but before he can say anything, a huge smile spreads across Castiel’s face.

                “Really?” he asks, and Dean chuckles once, nervously, clearing his throat again.

                “Yeah,” he says, smiling a little, “Only…only if you want to though.”

                Cas stares at Dean for a moment, and then a wave of happiness rolls through him, and before he even knows it, he reaches out and grabs Dean by the back of the head, pulling him into an enthusiastic kiss, startling a little noise of surprise out of Dean.

                “Yes!” Cas exclaims between kisses, laughing a little, “Dean, I would love that!”

                Dean’s hesitant smile turns into a full-on grin then. “Yeah? You want to?”

                Castiel laughs, throwing his arms around Dean’s shoulders, the hug made awkward by the angle they’re laying in on the grass. “Yes, you idiot!” he says, kissing Dean again, “I want to get an apartment with you.”

                Dean breathes out what can only be a sigh of relief, chuckling and closing his eyes as Castiel kisses him again. _Oh my god_ , this means Cas will have a place to live! He’s not homeless! This means he’ll be able to see Dean any time he wants to now! He’s still going off to college in Johnson, but Dean will _be_ there now. They don’t have to live an hour apart. Castiel’s mind whirls as his heart jumps in his chest, and he laughs happily, crawling on top of Dean without breaking off the kiss and pressing him down into the grass, showering him in affection.

                “You were _nervous_ ,” Cas suddenly realizes aloud, pulling away from the kiss to look down at Dean beneath him, “To ask me to live with you. You were nervous.”

                Dean rolls his eyes, flushing red again. “Of course I was nervous,” he snorts, “I didn’t want you to think I was taking things too fast…or whatever.”

                But no. Dean is not taking things too fast. Cas smiles down at him, and thinks to himself that there’s _no one_ in this world he’d rather live with, take the next step in his _life_ with. There’s no one he’d rather share a bed with, and kiss every morning and every night, and get in stupid fights with over who used the rest of the toothpaste, and cook meals with, and watch bad TV with. There’s _no one_ in this world Cas would rather spend every waking moment with than Dean.

                Dean stares up at him, his cheeks still rosy with his blush, freckles standing out like raindrops on cement on his cheeks, eyes glowing in the sunlight. Castiel reaches up and places his hand on the side of Dean’s face, stroking those soft freckles with his thumb, and suddenly, he wants to tell Dean the truth. He wants to tell Dean that he loves him. He wants to fucking _shout_ it at the top of his lungs. He wants to tell Dean how he’d rip his own heart out before he let anything bad happen to this boy again. He wants to tell Dean that the word _love_ doesn’t even come _close_ to the way Castiel feels about this boy beneath him, his shirt falling open slightly to reveal his smooth chest, hair mussed from their kisses, lips swollen and spit-slick.

                But in the end, Cas just bites his lip, smiling warmly and leaning down, giving Dean one more gentle kiss before rolling off of him and laying beside him, both of them smiling and staring up at the early May sky. They have all the time in the world for Cas to tell Dean that he loves him. Why rush it? Why do it now when he can tell Dean over and over again for years to come? He doesn’t _need_ to tell Dean that, when Dean can see it in Cas’s eyes, and Cas can see it in Dean’s.

                There _are_ no words that they could possibly use to express how they feel, to define what it is they have with each other. It just… _is_.

                Dean sighs next to him, reaching back and grabbing the stack of papers with apartment information on them, flipping through a few of them for a moment before yawning and stuffing them back into his backpack. Castiel rolls over onto his stomach, picking at the grass again as Dean settles on his back once more, throwing an arm over his face and yawning again.

                Cas eyes him with a little amused smile. “Are you going to sleep?” he asks softly, and Dean’s lips curve into a little tired grin.

                “Maybe for a little while,” he says, and then peeks at Cas from under his arm, “Is that okay?”

                Castiel huffs a little laugh, leaning in and planting a kiss at the edge of Dean’s jaw. “That’s fine Dean,” he says, and Dean smiles at him for a moment before yawning again and closing his eyes. They’re quiet for a couple minutes, just listening to the distant sounds of people in town, the marching band probably parading down Main Street. In the woods somewhere, there’s the echo of a dog barking, and the crunch of twigs and leaves as birds and deer and squirrels dart about.

                Dean shifts beside Cas after a little bit, grunting and opening his eyes. “Wait,” he says, rolling over and fishing through his backpack again. Castiel eyes him curiously as Dean pulls out a composition notebook with what looks like a shoelace wrapped around it like a bow. He hands it to Castiel, giving him another little nervous smile. “I almost forgot,” he says, as Cas looks down at the notebook, “As a graduation gift.”

                Castiel smiles a little. “I didn’t get you anything,” he admit sheepishly, and Dean waves his hand, settling onto his back again and closing his eyes.

                “I have you,” he replies, “I don’t need anything else.”

                Cas is glad that Dean’s eyes are closed, because it’s his turn to blush, and he bites his lip, reaching out and running his fingers through Dean’s hair gently. Dean hums contently and yawns once more, and Castiel continues to stroke his hair until Dean drifts off to sleep not ten minutes later. When Dean’s lips part a bit and his body sags into the grass, Cas pulls his hand away from Dean’s head, just staring at his sleeping face for a few minutes before finally lowering his eyes to the composition notebook in front of him.

                The notebook is bent and smudged and beat up like it’s been through the ringer, but Castiel still smiles when he sees, in Dean’s square scrawl, the words **_To Cas_ ** written on the cover. He chews the inside of his cheek, pulling at the little sloppy bow made out of an old shoelace in the middle of the notebook, fighting with the double knot for a few minutes before he finally manages to unravel it, dropping the string aside.

                When he opens the notebook, he has to cover his mouth to muffle the little noise of surprise he makes. There are drawings, _beautiful_ drawings, some in pencil, some in colors, others even in pen, covering every single page of the notebook. Castiel flips through them, eyeing the drawings appreciatively, some with little quotes or paragraphs written underneath in Dean’s scrawl.

                Cas glances up at Dean’s peaceful, sleeping face, the sun making him look like some sort of beautiful siren. Did Dean draw all of these? Cas didn’t even know Dean could _draw_ , but these are _gorgeous_. The drawings vary from dark and twisted, demons and blood and cigarette burns, to bright and happy and sweet. Some of the pages are just filled from top to bottom in Dean’s writing, and a few of those have wet smears scattered on them that Castiel realizes are tear marks, like Dean was _crying_ when he wrote them. Cas’s brow furrows and he runs his fingers over the long-dried teardrops, flipping back to page one of the notebook. If he’s going to look at all of this now, he wants to start from the beginning.

                The first page is just as breathtaking as the rest, and Cas’s lips part on an exhale of disbelief as he eyes the intricate shading and line work. It’s a drawing of himself, and Dean got every detail exactly right, from the freckle on Castiel’s chest, to the shadows under his eyes, to the mess of his hair. Only, Dean has added wings to Castiel’s back, arching high and proud and bursting with light like a holy being, and a glowing halo over Castiel’s head.

                Cas smiles in amusement as he looks at the drawing. He wonders if this is how Dean sees him, as some sort of angel or something. Cas can’t imagine thinking of himself that way, but it’s flattering.

                There’s a short paragraph written under the drawing of the angel, and Castiel wonders how long ago Dean started this notebook, how long ago he drew this angel version of himself, as he squints at the words. Castiel holds his hand up to shade the notebook from the sun, and he begins to read.

 

_You know me, Cas. I’m not one for all that sappy love letter crap or anything. But who knows? Maybe you’ll never even have a chance to read this._

 

                Cas glances up at Dean’s face, smiling a little at how much of Dean’s voice he can hear just by reading the words.

 

_I couldn’t figure out a way to tell you this out loud, so I decided to just write it down. Maybe you won’t even know what I’m talking about, but I just have to say it. Today I realized something._  
_Today I realized that wishing for courage is like having wings and never caring enough to fly. My life may be in ruins, but people will still come to see them._  
_I may never have the courage to ask what I already have again but…_  
_I’m just glad you’re still here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is guys. The end is finally here :) 
> 
> Thank you SO SO SO SO much for all the love and support, it's been a very crazy experience writing my first fanfiction :P But I honestly couldn't have done it without all of you carrying me through my near-weekly writer's block and my blatant self-consciousness hahaha. It's been a bumpy road, but I'm glad to have been able to put this story out there and hear what people thought (it seriously took me like two years to grow a pair and actually stop being scared to post this online hahaha).
> 
> As awesome as it has been to write this insane story (which ended up about 8 times longer than I originally planned, but such is the life of an unprepared, keyboard-happy fangirl) I'm so happy we've finally gotten to the end. I'm going to be working on many more fics in the near future, so if you're interested, keep an eye out and I'll post notifications about it on Tumblr as well :)
> 
> Again, thank you SOOOOO SO much, I honestly can't say that enough :) I hope you guys are satisfied <3


End file.
